Last Year
by LondonBelow
Summary: Mark, Roger and Collins face their junior year of high school. Ch. 20: Mark's feelings for Roger come out. now complete
1. Mark: Eggs

Disclaimer: Jonathan Larson owns; I'm just borrowing the characters to express my teenage angst.

Boys like Roger are born knowing how to kill. They stop themselves from thinking. They care nothing for each life around them. They accept, appreciate that life, but do they care for it? Do they love it? No, they do not. There will always be life. Each life is of little importance. It is the overall concept that matters, that universal heartbeat.

In the summer, the spring, Roger camped in his backyard. He slept on his back under the stars. He used to say, "I don't sleep at night. I just lay there and let myself go up, and up, and up. Trees don't sleep. Stars don't sleep." Those nights, he kept his eyes open and awoke in the morning with chafing dry eyeballs. No one taught him how to make a fire: he knew. He climbed a tree and took the fragile eggs from nests, cooked them on rocks by his small, blazing fire.

Eating those eggs never bothered Roger; I cringed at the merest mention. "You eat chicken eggs," he would say. "These are just smaller." He kept the shells as intact as possible and glued them back together whenever he could. He kept them in his sock drawer. Once, only once, he showed them to me. It was after school one day in seventh grade; "Come on," he insisted from the top of the stairs as I marveled at the obvious financial status of his family. "Hurry up, my mom'll be home soon." I followed him to his room, where we knelt. It could have been a séance, we could have kissed, all the nonsense teenagers do. "You can't tell anyone," he said. "Promise."

"I promise."

He pulled open his drawer. Inside he had dozens of tiny, beautiful eggs. "Aren't they great?" he asked in a breathy whisper. It was the most intimate I had ever been with anyone. "Just look at all those different colors..."

Every single one was blue. I knew better than tell him that.

People called Roger weird. They called him morbid. Roger pithed the frog while I hurled into the trash can. Roger tossed his soda bottle to kill a rat that crept into our classroom--glass everywhere, and Roger hauled bodily away as he insisted he would put the bottle back together. They called him tough, and when he said he was just curious, they called him twisted. This was seventh grade, after the eggs. One of his sisters, Marcy, she had a big mouth, saw the eggs, word got around.

Boys like Roger are born knowing how to kill. He fought efficiently, a few quick shots, then he looked over his shoulder at me, jerked his head and said, "Let's get outta here."

No one suspected, because of the fights, but I knew them better than anyone. I knew. Roger's bruises came later, after the fights. But all our dads were bastards then. Today, things like this are stopped. The government steps in. When we were kids, no one cared. Roger would have black eyes, split lips and no one cared because they knew he was a fighter. He did it to himself, they supposed.

I know what Roger did to himself. I saw him behind the art building, a single, stucco bungalow. "Going for a smoke," he said. Roger would've been fourteen by then, maybe fifteen, and I a year younger because of my late birthday. It was sophomore year, near the start of Spring term.

"Don't. C'mon, Rog, don't do that. You know my granddad had lung cancer."

"I'll be okay," he promised. I followed him behind the bungalow, meaning to stop him.

As it turns out, Roger's cigarettes wouldn't give him lung cancer. He lit the end, rolled up his cuff and brought the burning cigarette down to kiss his flesh. "Shit, Roger." We lived in a fairly suburban area. I had never before heard of anyone doing that… mutilating himself like that. "Here." All I could think was that it had been an accident despite the determined set of his eyes, his clenched fingers. I drenched one of the napkins from my lunch (yes, my mother made my lunches) and grabbed Roger's arm. I slapped the wet paper cloth over the burn.

"Thanks, man," Roger said. His voice had gone dull. He tried to pull his arm back, but I had seen the scars already.

"Shit, Roger," I said again. "What… how long?"

He shrugged. "Three years? Four?"

"Because of your dad?"

"Yeah. Kinda. I mean, lots of things."

"Can you stop?" I asked him. "Can you call me instead? We can talk… I can help…" I couldn't understand why Roger had never come to me with this. Didn't he know I would always be there for him? Over the next few months, Roger would call me, sniffling, and apologize. That's one thing boys like Roger aren't born knowing how to do: cry.

Acts but no hour wanted remorse--it was too late after eight o'clock, was I spending time with my family, he knew I had homework. I told him I wasn't busy, even when I was, and we would talk for hours about the most insignificant things. We talked about baseball--Roger did, anyway, I wasn't much of a sports fan--politics, school. We talked about countries we wanted to see. Food. Roger liked to talk about food. Around this time his mother went back to work as a nurse, leaving him home with his little sister. Roger learned how to cook and we would talk about all the things he found in cookbooks, these beautiful words. He loved asafetida, cardamom, turmeric.

I got into trouble for those phone calls. "Mark, don't leave the table to talk to your friends, it's very rude."

"I know, Mom, I'm sorry."

I wished I could tell her about Roger. She would know what to do. Besides, surely, knowing my friend was suicidal, my dad would stop kicking my ass for leaving the table, for the phone bill. But then school let out, and the phone calls stopped. I got more and more scared, by the end of July wound, as my sister said, "tight as a virgin." That was the day I got on my bike and rode to Roger's place. I watched him for a moment: he and his sister were outside; he was teaching her how to shoot baskets. I remember how strange he looked, wearing long sleeves in July.

I went home, determined to think of some way to help my friend.

One morning in September, I sat at the kitchen table watching my mother, the way she moved. She didn't look at what she did, be it pouring milk or untangling Cindy's pathetic attempt at French-braiding her hair. She just knew. Every part of her knew what to do: her fingers, her face, her soft hands.

"Mom," I started. She knew what she was doing. She would tell me what to do. Surely she knew some phrase to use, something to tell Roger to stop hurting himself. Wasn't there a magic Mom word to make bad boys behave? I hadn't thought it before, but the term fit Roger well. He was a bad boy, not in the glorified, James Dean sense, but literally.

She looked up from Cindy's hair. Cindy was maybe sixteen or seventeen then, but had only recently outgrown childhood, an event that coincided mysteriously with my being told to _stay out_ of the bottom cabinet in the bathroom, and if I did need something I was to _ignore completely_ the blue plastic bag, _do you understand me, Mark Cohen?_

"What is it, Mark?" Mom asked. "And drink your milk, you're nearly late."

"Ow!"

"Cindy, if you sit still…"

"Nothing, Mom," I muttered, but she wasn't listening anymore. That was the day I started my junior year of high school.

TO BE CONTINUED

Well? Like it? Hate it? Let me know! Constructive criticism is always welcome!


	2. Collins: Day One

Disclaimer: Jonathan Larson owns; I'm just borrowing the characters to express my teenage angst.

High school: need I say more?

Like any fairly bright sixteen-year-old, I can't wait until high school is over. All right, so it was fun joking around with my friends back home, but here in Scarsdale I don't know anyone. There will be no joking around, no notes written in chemical symbols. Iodine (Magnesium-g)-Iodine-2(sulfur) Uranium, knitted into a hat from my friend Jessie as 53 12g 53 16 16 92, hidden beneath the rim. I miss you. She wasn't the only one crying when we said good-bye.

"Dad."

First thing in the morning, I wandered into the kitchen still buttoning my shirt. "Can I get a ride to school?" I never understood the ability of adults to be wide awake in the morning, until the day I dunked my head into a sink full of icy water. Since then, no one ever says, "Did you sleep okay last night? You look exhausted!" I cannot honestly say it's a comment I miss hearing.

As for my father, I somehow doubt he uses the icy-water treatment. It seems silly, undignified to even think of around him. Dad's sense of humor is… let's just say it's in my prayers with Gran and Louis Armstrong. "Sure, Tom."

"Thanks." Teenagers eat all sorts of strange things. I crumbled a chocolate chip cookie into a glass and poured in enough milk to give it the consistency of very lumpy oatmeal. Athletes eat raw eggs; I don't think this is any more disgusting, but I've yet to meet anyone who can watch me spoon it into my mouth. My usual attitude towards what other people think is, simply, _fuck 'em,_ but this bewilders me. Cookies and milk is an American classic.

Dad stopped about a block away from school to avoid congestion. I had thanked him and was about to unlock the door when he said, "Listen, Tom, I know you're a good kid…" _Oh, no._ I knew this speech. _Toe the line_, he wanted to say. The strange thing is, Dad never gave this speech. When he was called into the school, he would always be completely quiet about it. I only asked him once, when I was in the fifth grade. Dad had to come into school for a conference with the principal when I refused to say the Pledge of Allegiance.

That night was probably the worst I have ever felt. Dad isn't a talkative fellow, so his silence should have been an accustomed attribute, but it seemed as though he would not even look at me. At dinner, I finally burst. "It's not right and that's the only reason I'm not doing it," I said. "Most of the kids in my class can't even understand the words, and they shouldn't say it and maybe they know… I thought they might be scared not to say, about getting in trouble. I was for a long time, too, but if _I_ can stop maybe other people won't _be_ so scared…"

I was ten and I was scared. It was the first time I had ever done anything truly bad, at least that I saw as truly bad. It was the first time my dad had to come in to the school to meet with an administrator. But he just let me talk myself out, then said, "Do what you have to, Tom." So I did.

Scarsdale was a fresh start. I hardly expected my father, after six years of supporting my efforts through silence, to turn and become that teacher/counselor/principal telling me of my opportunities if I could just behave myself, yet it seemed the time had come. My heart fluttered, almost excited. I faced a traditional teenage experience, the chance to stand up to my father and clash words, beliefs with a titan. It was a rite of passage, and I savored its coming.

He said, "I understand the argument, the acting out, I know you're bored, but please, this is not Los Angeles. Things are different here. There are certain… societal standards it's best to let be, Tom."

That stopped me cold. "Dad…" I licked the roof of my mouth: it had gone dry. "Do you mean, don't let everyone know I'm a homo?" How could he say that? How could my father, who had never encouraged me to do anything but be myself, suddenly decide that something as natural as homosexuality was wrong?

Oh, I had heard the words before. People back home generally accepted it, but there were the necessary few who needed to shout, "Fag!" out car windows. My old high school bordered a neighborhood populated almost entirely by homosexuals, so offensive and obscene comments were fairly commonplace. So was acceptance.

Dad looked right at me, which is more respect than I had ever expected from anyone saying this sort of thing, and he said, "Yes, Tom. That's exactly what I mean."

I suppose, in some way, my teenage rite of passage had come. I swore at my father and slammed the car door on my way out. I had hoped, expected to feel righteous in the way teenagers are supposed to. Their arrogance overwhelms and their pride swells that they have found the courage to stand up for what they believe in and fight against the abstractist concept of The Man. This is all very rock-n-roll.

The difficulty is, I stood up to my father. I respect my father, I love him. Cursing at him didn't make me feel better. It made me hate myself. The abstract The Man is an invention to dehumanize the enemy. This is one of those times I wish I could turn off my brain, stop thinking and just act. Even that thought is refuted. One cannot act without the brain.

Damn!

The school was all right, had a nice façade of red brick. I approached from the back, thoroughly lost myself and ended up behind one of the bungalows. The lack of garbage struck me: obviously, this was a well-avoided place. The angry boy leaning against the wall might be an indication of why.

"Hey," I called.

He looked up. There is something chilling about anger in green eyes. Anger is a blaze, green a living color. It seems the two should cancel one another out; they struggle for dominance. The boy took a cigarette out of his mouth, blew a stream of smoke and said, "Hey. You new?"

I nodded. "Yeah, just moved here. That obvious?"

He shrugged. "You stand out."

"You mean I'm black?"

"No, I don't care about shit like that." He was trying too hard to be bad. He offered the cigarette. "You want?" he asked. "Something to calm you down."

I hesitated. I had taken drugs before, my fair share in fact, but like Dad had said, this was Scarsdale. Things were different here. If being gay was a problem, smoking probably was, too.

"Yeah." I took the joint and sucked a drag. "That's not bad stuff."

"I don't smoke just any shit," he replied. A loud bell crashed through the school. My companion jumped. "I hate the first day," he said with a heavy sigh. "It's too early to ditch anything. Good luck, man."

TO BE CONTINUED!


	3. Mark: Mulch

Disclaimer: Jonathan Larson owns; I'm just borrowing the characters to express my teenage angst.

MARK

Until junior high school, I didn't have many friends. Okay, I didn't have any friends. I would read, sing, sit alone and try not to get beaten up because_ glasses don't grow on trees. Can't you be more careful?_

Sixth grade was the most painful thing to ever happen to me. I looked like a walking target in Cindy's hand-me-down shirts, as my mother figured that all white, collared, three-button shirts were exactly the same, not gender specific. Unfortunately, Cindy was four and a half inches taller than me. My uniform shirts billowed halfway down my thighs. Add to that the fact that my mother combed and gelled my hair, and my glasses had tape on them.

Usually, the best policy when facing bullies is to run for an administrator or teacher. Don't tell them, that only makes the beating worse (and it always comes). Their presence is enough to dispel the immediate threat. I was new and instead of running towards faculty members, I ran behind the art building. That was the day a bully who wasn't a bully saved my glasses and, I thought, my life.

I followed Roger for days before he said a kind word to me, and that word was: "For chrissakes, Cohen, you can't add unlike denominators!"

Since then, we've been close. Roger took certain liberties, like when I showed up at school one day he said, "You're asking to be beat up," and ran his fingers through my hair. I looked in the bathroom mirror and saw spikes. Mom didn't like it one bit, but the bullying grew less and less--perhaps because I now had a protector.

Roger made me do bad things sometimes, like in junior high when we cut out because Roger decided there were more important things than school. He promised we would be back by the end of lunch, helped me over the fence and led me down to the dirt hill by the aquaduct and announced that we were going to have a picnic.

I cleaned my glasses. "Here?" It wasn't much, just a dirt hill mostly shaded by vegetation. As I had followed Roger off the sidewalk, it had occurred to me that I was inviting any means of torture and murder at the hands of this not-quite-friend.

Roger looked at me like I'd grown a third head. "Yeah," he said, then sat down and took his lunch out of his bookbag.

"I… was gonna buy lunch," I muttered.

Roger held out half a sandwich. I took it and sat next to him. We spent three hours there, just talking, sharing Roger's peanut butter sandwich and Coke. Even then he had a mild caffeine addiction, but he was so crazy no one knew.

Roger never really makes friends. He allows select people to coexist within his sphere. If they stay long enough to realize there's a marvelous boy within the craziness, and he accepts them, they are friends. He doesn't make friends, he and another become friends. They wake up of a morning and are.

Tom Collins is the exception to that rule. Maybe it's because we were thrown together in so many classes--all except Math. Collins and I had Algebra II; Roger, who had always been sharp with numbers, had Calculus. So we parted after morning break to head our separate ways, then met again in the lab for fourth period biology. And, as frosting on the cake, we were nearly always seated together: Cohen, Collins, Davis. The alphabet is darkly reliable.

And Roger just accepted him, just like that. In fourth period biology, when the syllabi were passed out, Roger scanned his, then turned to Collins, who was sitting next to him, nudged his arm and said, "Hey, Col, look-- we're doing the reproduction unit in November." We focused on one topic per month: two weeks' studying, two weeks' lab work, test. When Collins indicated that he failed to see the comedy, Roger rolled his eyes and moaned, "Teddy _Roosevelt_, man! That's November, too. Teddy 'Big Stick' _Roosevelt_! Aw, c'mon, laugh with me," he pleaded.

"Ha, ha," Collins said. "Hey, what's that?" he asked, rubbing his thumb on Roger's forehead. "Oh. It's just some _dirt_ 'cause you're so _low-brow_."

Roger laughed. That is not what I had expected, and to be honest, I was a little jealous. Maybe more than a little.

Fifth and sixth periods were the best part of the day. In fifth we had Library Practice, which essentially meant shelving books and hanging around. Sixth period was Advanced Drama, and our instructor Mr. Trask announced on the first day of school, "Since you are all advanced students I do not expect horsing around. This semester is going to be largely independent work. Get into groups, put on a scene. Make it a long scene. If you do not have a group, you may learn a monologue." So Collins, Roger and I decided to put on a scene together. From that point forward we weren't just friends. We were bound to be friends.

Two weeks into the semester, we sat at our lab station with the imaginary presence of Violet Dennis, who had most unfortunately experienced kidney trouble and was unable to attend school. We were all quite sad for her, but secretly, I hadn't wanted her in our group, anyway. That's a terrible thing to think, and I found myself praying silently every time I thought it. I thought it, anyway, but at least G-d knew I was sorry.

We were building an ecosystem out of empty soda bottles. "Let's fill this one entirely with water," Roger said, and held it under the tap in the lab sink. "That's healthy, it'll keep the air damp."

Collins and I pressed our strawberry plant into some dirt in the second bottle, let our spider and ladybugs out of their respective containers, and taped it shut. "Decomposition chamber--who brought the mulch?"

There is something awkward about admitting, "Oh, I did," and pulling out a brown lunch bag. I opened the bag and my heart jumped up into my mouth. "Fudge." Which was precisely what I saw: fudge cookies, a sandwich, carrot sticks… This was not my mulch. It was Cindy's lunch. "Uhh…"

Roger peeked into the bag, laughed and slapped my shoulder. Collins traded some ladybugs for some mulch from Table One. The disaster was averted, but I couldn't stop blushing.

"Mark? Mark? Look, this is Benjy." Roger was grinning as he held up a plastic cup. Inside, a small fish flickered, trailing billowy blue fins. "He's a betta. Benjamin Franklin. Look, he eats bloodworms." Roger held up a plastic bag to demonstrate: within the bag, in a corner filled with water, tiny red worms slithered. I moaned and turned away, queasy.

"Benjy doesn't like you, either," Roger announced.

"Just put Benjy in the water chamber and stop fooling around," Collins muttered. Roger dumped the fish, the worms and a small plant into the water chamber and taped it closed. We now had a full ecosystem, complete with Roger smiling and saying, "Hey, Benjy..." repeatedly. When at last he looked up, it was to ask Collins and me, "You guys want to come over after school on Friday? Just hang out and stuff?"

I left school with the distinct feeling that my feet never quite touched the pavement. We were going to hang out. It felt to proper, so teenage. For someone with stunted social growth, this was monumental. I was grinning maniacally up to the point at which Cindy joined me, screamed, "You _bitch_, Mark!" and smacked me hard on the head with a bag full of dirt.

TO BE CONTINUED!

Teddy Roosevelt's foreign policy was to "talk softly and carry a big stick". And the notes in chemical symbols, oh, that hat really exists.

Next chapter is Roger's perspective.


	4. The Roger Davis Guide to Being Bad

Disclaimer: Jonathan Larson owns; I'm just borrowing the characters to express my teenage angst.

ROGER

One time my parents sent me to a shrink. I didn't like it. He told me to keep a diary. I did. Then he read it. He asked me, Why did I write in present tense about things that had already happened? And I told him, because I still want to feel them. He said I had issues. I couldn't let things go, he said. We're going to practice letting things go, Roger. I hated the way he said my name. We're going to practice with this. He made me watch him burn my diary. Now, that wasn't so bad, was it, Roger? Because it was just paper, not a part of you. Stop crying, Roger.

I learned how to remember everything. I learned how to catalog my life in the scars I made, this one from the first time Dad hit me, before I knew he was wrong and not me. This one because I didn't want to feel anything when my dog died, because I was the one who didn't latch the gate properly. This one because I was scared I wasn't human because I'm so bad. This one from the day Mark found out. This one. This one. For Mark, who didn't deserve this burden.

I learned how to scream.

---

Before I know what I'm doing, I've knocked the pipette away. "No! You can't!"

Mrs. Anders gives me a condescending look. "Things die. This is how it is in real life," she says. I know that already.

"This isn't real life." Ignoring me, she steps forward, again brandishing her pipette. One look at the oil sloshing around in the head and I want to be sick. She wants Benjy to live in that stuff. It's torture. "Stop it. Get away. I won't let you." I'm babbling. This is a bad situation for me; I don't know what to do. I haven't planned this. My heart is pounding. I can't think, can't plan.

"Cool it, Davis," someone calls. Suddenly the entire class is watching me, watching this protest and laughing. Don't they see anything wrong? Do none of them see anything wrong with this… this sadism?

Collins says, "C'mon, man." He says it like this is unimportant. Anyone else would get slugged for that, but Collins never thinks anything is important. Everything rolls off his back; he's a real-live Sisyphus.

"Roger--" Mark squeaks. I know I'm scaring him and I feel a little bad, but most of what I do scares Mark. Roger, don't smoke. Roger, don't walk on the railing. Roger, don't hurt yourself. I have to, Mark, I'm sorry, I don't know how to be good like you are. And how can he disagree? Mark watched his grandfather die; I was there when he fell to pieces, undone entirely, yet here he condones this poisoning?

I'm too furious to stop now. I might pass out. "You! You should be supporting me--" Taking advantage of my distraction, Anders creeps up, pipette in hand. "No! Get away, I said! _You will not kill Benjamin Franklin!"_

"Mr Davis, that is enough--"

No, it isn't. It won't be enough until she leaves him alone. I grab the water chamber from out environment and leap up onto the lab table. "Get away from him!" I warn her.

"Davis!"

"Roger, come on, come down." There's something in Mark's eyes, something in his face. His eyes are dull. Mark doesn't care.

I don't understand. Mark always cares. Mark cares about everything, everybody. Mark watched his grandfather die and trembled because he could do nothing to reverse the process, to make the bad cells stop splitting and spreading and starving the good cells that Mark Cohen, Sr., needed to survive. How can Mark not care about preventing further death? How can Mark not care about me, standing here, alone? How can he abandon me like this?

And looking around the room, it's all I see: dead eyes. Some are laughing at me. Some are angry. Only Collins can look away, but he can't face me. I'm beginning to cry.

"Doesn't… anybody care?"

---

Mark was named after his grandfather, Mark Cohen, Sr. Mark's father's name is Elias. In the Jewish culture, it's usually considered an insult to name a baby after a living relative. When Mark was born, his grandfather had just been diagnosed with cancer. Mark's parents named him Mark because they hoped he would learn from and be like his namesake.

Mark Cohen, Sr., went into the hospital for the last time when Mark and I were in eighth grade. Mark went to visit him every day. He showed me one of the film reels. "You come here, Marcus, you film me, why? You want me on film? You never film me before, never carry that thing around, but this you want to remember?" Mark Cohen, Sr. was cantankerous to the end. Before, Mark had only drooled over the old camera. He bought it to film his grandfather, spent a fair deal of his Bar Mitzvah money to keep his memories safe.

One night, Mark knocked on my window. "He came home," he said, then burst into tears. He cried for a long time, then he fell asleep on my bed. I took off his shoes and socks, and pulled the blanket over him, then called Mrs. Cohen and told her that Mark was fine, he had come over and was a little upset but he was asleep now, and would it be all right if he spent the night? I didn't want to wake him.

We cut class together. Sometimes we went and sat by the aquaduct, especially after a rainy day. It seemed winter that year had latched itself firmly to Scarsdale; it was late March and still raining. Other times we sat behind the art building. Mark never cried at school, just got quiet and trembled. I would hold him and rock him, which seemed to help.

One night, it was raining, and I was sitting at my desk listening to a tape recording of Louis Armstrong. I remember only for the irony. Mark tapped on the window.

"Christ, Mark!" As though that meant anything. He was crying. I knew.

Mark couldn't settle down. He kept spinning, confused, looking for something but he didn't know what. I finally just grabbed him and held him. He nearly fell, all the fight gone from his muscles, and he whimpered, "I hate April… I hate April…"

Mark cried for a long time. I let him lay on my bed, soaked though he was, and gave him my teddy to hold. While Mark was crying, I lay next to him, hugging him and stroking his hair and muttering things that meant nothing but that I was listening and I was there. I started to get up to call his mother, once Mark had calmed down, but he grabbed my hand. "Don't," he told me, so I stayed.

Someday I'll write out the whole story. Some day, but not today.

---

I'm going to write a book: _The Roger Davis Guide to Being Bad_. The most important lesson will be the first: what is bad? Bad is everything. It is attitude. It is stance. It is the underlying concept in your every word, the arsenic lacing your tone. Bad is tough and takes work and it hurts to be bad. You have to be dedicated.

Right now I'm in the counseling office, because after security dragged me out of the lab I started crying… maybe before that. I kept sobbing, and when I realized the plastic bottle was no longer clutched to my chest I cried harder, wailing, so they brought me to see Ms. Ariata instead of taking me to the principal, who knows me well enough already.

"So… Roger," she says, in a sweet voice. It's so fake I wonder what she is trying to hide from me. Is it contempt? I think it's contempt. I'm a contemptible fellow, so I am. I'm bad. Bad is smelling like a horse with every drop of sweat. Bad is something you have to be through and through, and I am bad. Even the way I sit shouts 'bad': my wrists are crossed on the table, shoulders loose, jaw loose, left heel kicking the back of my right ankle. I move my tongue like I have a wad of chewing gum, feeling each word.

Ms. Ariata says, "Why don't you tell me about the fish?"

Ariata's young. She's maybe in her thirties with black hair swept up in clips with butterflies on them. "He's a betta. His name is Benjamin Franklin," I say. Ariata is either pregnant or insecure; she has a little bulge of a belly, not fat, but it's there. She's sitting across from me with her hands on the table, fingers stacked, leaning in like she's real interested. Adults never care. Most people don't. Play 'em, every last shitbag. Fuck 'em as bad as you can.

No wedding ring: Ariata is insecure. It's probably stress eating; this is her first year here. "I don't…" I shift in my chair, snivel a little. "I don't want him to die," I say. My eyes go big and round; I look up to face her, pleading. "You know?" It's true. I don't want Benjy to die. I'm manipulating Ariata, though, in letting myself grow emotional.

Ariata smiles, a real smile this time. "Of course not, Roger. We never want things to die. But death is a natural part of life. This is a fact we must, sadly, accept."

"I know, Ma'am, but if I let them finish the experiment then I'm killing Benjy, murdering him. Blood on my hands." I show her my hands. They're fairly clean, though my nails are rimmed in black. I colored them with a fountain pen one day in English, because I was bored. Dad… Dad really did not like that.

"Roger, you knew what to expect. You were forewarned--"

I shake my head so hard I feel my hair bouncing. "I wasn't. She never said we had to put in oil. Ms. Ariata, I can't kill things. It's a Commandment." I hate church. Church is… I always fall asleep in church and my mom pinches me awake. The Roger Davis Guide to Being Bad will include a section on the proper manner in which to sleep through church, which means that I must learn to proper manner in which to sleep through church. So I don't actually care about Commandments, but it sounds good.

Ariata is convinced, and thinks I'm just an unusually compassionate boy, and why don't I come in and talk to her, say during Library Practice on Fridays? We can start next week.

---

I've barely slid onto a bench at lunch but Collins asks, "So, how'd it go?"

I shrug. "I dunno. They made me take a drug test and I'm meeting with Ariata on Fridays. You could've helped me. Benjy's your fish as much as mine."

Collins laughs. "And how is your cheeseburger?" he asks.

"Garden burger I'll have you know." I'm not a vegetarian. The cafeteria happened to be serving garden-cheeseburgers today, and my metabolism is pathetically stereotypical. Hot lunches may just be the high points of my day.

It doesn't matter. Mark won't look at me when I try to force an explanation, and Collins laughs it off, so I give up. "Still want to hang out today?" I ask. "I guess I'm the class freak now."

Collins laughs and steals one of my French fries. Jerk. "You've always been the class freak," he says, and Mark laughs a little. I don't mind. I laugh, too. People think that I dominate Mark. It's not true. I just give him opportunities. I offer him a share of my badness. Mark has a wild streak, he just needs a little help letting it out.

TO BE CONTINUED

Reviews are appreciated (wink, wink... nudge, nudge...)


	5. Collins: The Closet

Disclaimer: Jonathan Larson owns; I'm just borrowing the characters to express my teenage angst.

WARNING: This chapter contains both f-words.

Roger paused outside of a Catholic elementary school and told us to wait here, he would be right back, then jogged inside, leaving Mark and I standing out in the middle of what would inevitably be one of the last warm days that autumn. Already the leaves were turning. They fell as we walked, spiraling onto the sidewalk as though solely extant--though they no longer truly were--for the purpose of being crushed satisfyingly beneath our sneakers.

Roger said they had named it 'Fall' for "attention deficit people who can't be bothered to watch the sidewalk." After saying that he had offered his hand and hauled me to my feet. I didn't bother explaining that where I grew up, the trees were green year-round and 'winter' occurred on a few rainy days, a single digit scattered between November and March.

Outside the school, I climbed up onto the railing and sat; Mark fidgeted. "What's he doing?" he muttered, peering into the school. "We could get in trouble for this. Collins--"

"Even if Roger does something stupid, we're out here. We don't know," I told Mark. He went on fidgeting for a while, until Roger emerged from the school. He had a little girl in tow, and was giving half-answers around a mouthful of what looked like a cigarette.

"Are you smoking?" Mark asked, incredulous. "Around a kid?"

"It's a lollipop," the girl replied. "It's green."

To demonstrate, Roger stuck out his tongue, squishing it to frame the candy. He kept his mouth open until Mark ceded and apologized. Then, with a self-satisfied grin, Roger said, "Collins, this is Sarah. Sarah, say hello."

She muttered "Hi" to the back of Roger's knees. "Oh," he said, oozing sarcasm, "yeah, Sarah, you're really _shy_." To which point she stepped out from behind him and practically shouted, "Hi!"

Roger laughed. "There ya go. Okay. On we go." He grabbed Sarah's hand and walked on, leaving Mark and I no choice but to follow. When I shot him a questioning look and jerked my head in the direction of the girl, Mark explained, "She's Roger's little sister." Roger couldn't answer, too busy listening to his sister chatter on about why she hated nuns.

Mostly, at Roger's, we hung around. He gave his sister a sheet of music and told her to learn it, at which point she disappeared and piano notes filled the house. "You babysit?" I asked. It seemed so poor a choice. Roger could barely take care of himself. It also said a lot about his parents. They had no idea that their son was a pot-smoking, emotional tornado.

Roger shrugged. We were pausing in a rehearsal of our Drama scene to nab the unhealthiest snacks in the house: Coke, and Roger's stash of licorice. "Someone's gotta give a damn," he said.

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"It means my parents didn't _want_ her and they aren't exactly hiding that. Turns out they only thought they wanted us." He tilted the bottle and drank, trying to fool himself drunk. "Nobody gives a damn about my sister. That's not fair."

"You give a damn," I told him.

Roger sighed. When he answered, it was with an air of regret. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I give a damn." It wasn't until later that I realized why Roger cared so much: no one had cared about him. No one had shown him love when he was a child, and he could not adjust to the idea, now, that he had her and he had Mark and me. Roger was incapable of understanding that he had value. That fascinated me.

I picked up a framed photograph displaying the Davis parents and six single-digit-aged children. "Is that you?" I asked Roger, pointing to the boy in the photograph.

Roger glanced over my shoulder and laughed. "It look like me?" he asked. "That's Pete. _That_'s me," he said, pointing to the little baby on his mother's lap.

"Aww, Baby Roger," Mark said. He stood on tiptoe to ruffle Roger's hair. Roger squirmed and acted as though he didn't like it, but he was smiling.

"So where are they?" I asked. "Who are they?"

Roger looked again at the picture. He pointed, as he did so naming his siblings: "Pete, Marcy, Frankie, Theresa, Anne. They're all, like, not here. Like working or in college. Marcy still lives here but she's out with her boyfriend." Roger made it clear that he did not want to discuss his siblings. I didn't push him or ask why, but needless to say, I wanted to.

We rehearsed. Around six o'clock we started cooking, as was Roger's responsibility, a process slowed by Roger's pauses as he held up two measuring spoons and asked his sister, "If this is _half_ a teaspoon and this is a _quarter_ or a teaspoon, what part of a teaspoon do I have?"

To which Sarah, after hard thought, answered, "Three-quarters."

"Good. Work. This." He pointed. She did.

There is something about Roger that fascinates me. He makes no sense. He is both a very good person and a very bad person. Roger loves his sister, and tries to make sure no one knows. He slacks off, draws on his nails during class, and has almost all A's. He wants to talk about life, the future, debate morality with our history teacher; he wants to smoke and fornicate (in his words) and play his guitar. On the first day of history class, Mrs. Jones told us, "Just learn what it says in the book, guys. Just learn that."

"Including," Roger wanted to know, "its propaganda, racism and inaccuracies?"

"Yes," Jones said. "Welcome back, Roger."

He smiled. "I've missed you, Jones."

"And I you."

Yet by the end of this class, Roger was asking why he couldn't "frolic in mindless erotic abandon". He exudes confidence and lives on the brink of tears. I find myself drawn to him. He's like fire. I know that I should stay away. I know I should detach myself fully, only notice him in the cafeteria queue as 'that weird kid from history', but I can't. I want to be near Roger. Be his friend.

Roger is, I think, extremely insecure and terrified of anyone discovering his insecurity. In the midst of this chaos is Mark, which makes him fascinating. Mark is tiny, quiet, shy; Mark is a stereotype. He's also brilliant, and I think Roger almost stops that coming out. He stops Mark expressing himself.

"Col, Col, Col," Roger said, tapping my arm. We were in his room, sitting on the floor with an open bottle of beer. "Col," Roger said again, "you're gone."

I blinked. "Huh?" Yeah, I was gone. I had wandered into an alternate reality in which I admitted to Roger and Mark, as I wanted to, that I was gay. Following that, in my dream, we were able to be friends, real friends, honest with one another, and now that he trusted me, I was able to help Roger ease off pot. He smoked a lot. Much more than I did.

Roger pointed to the beer. I handed it to him; he drank and handed it to Mark, who handed it back to me. Roger laughed. "I forgot, Mark, you're good," he said. "Sorry."

"Your dad's gonna kill you," Mark mumbled. "You shouldn't do this."

"And yet," Roger said. He took the beer from me and drank. "Collins is drinking." I hardly was. I wasn't as buzzed as Roger. The strange thing is, I don't think Roger was buzzed. He was using alcohol as an excuse. His inner crazy was coming out, and that scared me. "I love you, Mark," Roger said. I froze. Roger loved Mark? Roger and Mark were… were… they were? This was my daydream come true. I could tell them the truth, and-- the dream ended when Roger very sloppily kissed Mark, then laughed. "I love you, man," he giggled. "I'm so fuckin' drunk."

There was a lull, and in the quiet moment the sound of a footstep on the stairs. Roger sat up straight, like a rabbit in danger suddenly on the brink of motion. His tension quieted Mark and me. "Shit," Roger whispered. "My parents're home." He set the beer on the floor and stood, motioning for us to do the same. He opened his window. "Get out," he said.

"What?" Mark asked.

"Out," Roger repeated. "Go. Quick!" He motioned, as though sweeping us through the window with his hands. "Go, go!"

So we did.

---

I spent the next evening with my dad. We had been in Scarsdale for a month and decided to have a celebratory evening, which I hesitate to call a party because it mostly involved the two of us sitting at the table with the radio playing, eating Chinese take-out and playing scrabble.

"Are you enjoying school?" Dad asked. He spelled out _meter_ for the first word and jotted down his score.

I added _thermo-_ and said, "It's okay. Pretty easy, but a few good teachers. Jones, for history."

"How about math?"

Strange things happen to the brilliant sons of math teachers. My father taught at community college, constantly complaining about his students. I grew up around quadratics and logarithms. In Freshman year, I took Calculus; that spring I passed the Advanced Placement tests for both AB and BC. Sophomore year the school assigned me to Statistics. By junior year, I had exhausted math options. They made me a teacher's aide.

"He's awful," I said. "Cool person. Draft-dodger. But he doesn't really get how to teach." Dad nodded: he knew. "How's school for you?"

"Oh, they're all the same, Thomas."

We talked. We sat at the table and talked about school, college, friends. That moment from my first day of school in which I had been a rebellious teenager irked by parental restrictions, was well into the past now. It was nice. But the truth is, despite not talking about that moment, I felt its presence. When Dad told me not to come out here in Scarsdale, he told me to live alone. I hungered for intimacy, my arms ached to hold on to someone. My heart needed a city, somewhere fast where no one knew you and no one cared.

And so, unbeknownst to my father, I had a slew of college applications under my mattress. I had Mark and Roger, for whatever they were worth, but I would leave them in a heartbeat for New York, Los Angeles, Berkeley, whichever university would take me. I was getting out of the oppressive closet of Scarsdale.

---

Jones let us leave ten minutes early to find him on Monday. As we wandered through campus, Mark trying to avoid looking at any of the stoners and ditchers, I asked, "Why do you do this?"

"Do what?" Mark asked, honestly confused.

"This. All this. Looking after Roger, chasing him down so he'll attend class. Mark, what's your life like?" I realized, sadly, that I did not know.

Mark shrugged. We were near the back of the school, headed for the art building where Roger had offered me a quick smoke on my first day. "It's not worth discussing," he said. "My dad still hasn't forgiven me for deciding against Confirmation, my sister is suddenly a moody beast and my mother… she's just my mom. Pretty boring."

There are two sets of stairs; one is direct, hugs the science building and is only big enough for two small people side by side. Mark went ahead, which is why Mark encountered the stoners as he emerged from the covered stairs. "Hey, it's Cohen," someone said.

"A ha, ha, hey, fag."

Mark kept his head down and hurried on. If the slur made his heart go numb as it did mine, he did not show it. "Hey, wait up."

"Please don't--"

There is no purpose in pleading with bullies. I know that. I know that because I've taken basic psychology courses, but when facing a bully, I don't know how I would act. Being tall and thickly built has its advantages; people seem to think my body is composed of kevlar. Mark, small, scrawny, shoulders turned in, made himself a target. Begging a bully at all is begging him to hurt you.

I thought Mark didn't know. He did. Otherwise, he might have protested when shoved to the ground. "Hey, come on," I said. "This isn't worth it." Psychology classes explain why people do the things they do. They don't explain how to stop them. That takes intuition and experience; I was equipped only with the former. Even bullies know better than to kick kevlar.

"I think it is." He was smaller than Mark, with thick spikes in his hair and a T-shirt three sizes too big for him.

"I think it's not."

On the bright side, we found Roger. On the darker side, Mark is on the ground getting kicked and someone obviously already found Roger, whose cheek had swollen and bruised a horrible green-purple color.

"Fuck off, Davis."

Roger grabbed the kid and wound his hands into his shirt. "You touch him again, you die. Understand?" he asked.

"Ha, ha, like I'm scared of you."

Roger smashed his fist into the kid's face. Then he threw him against the building and in the instant it took to turn away forgot him entirely. "Mark?" Roger offered his hand; Mark took it and pulled himself up. "You shouldn't be out here," Roger said, brushing the dirt off of Mark's back. I found myself feeling a sudden tightness in my throat, a sense of moral injustice, and almost wanted to tell Roger to let Mark alone, let him stand up for himself. He wasn't badly hurt; maybe without Roger, Mark might not be so shy. He might have other friends, friends who were not freight trains headed for a crash.

"Collins, you okay?"

"Yeah."

Mark pulled a paper packet from his pocket, one of those chemical-soaked napkins handed out at restaurants, and swabbed clean his arm, which had been scraped in the fall. There wasn't too much blood, but the scab would be huge. "You need one, too?" he asked Roger.

"He wasn't hit," I said.

"Oh, I didn't mean…" Mark looked from Roger to me and to Roger again, then muttered something incomprehensible and returned to his arm.

I asked Roger, "What happened to your face?" He shrugged and said he fell off his skateboard.

Mark didn't love his life, that much I knew. But in that moment, when Roger refused the napkin and told me he had fallen off his skateboard, Mark aged and grew sad. That's the moment in which I knew Mark was more than unhappy, but either unhealthy or gay. He had attached himself to Roger, to this protector, and lived to dispel as much of his anger and pain as possible. Either Mark was trying to live through Roger, express the teenage angst he kept buried deep, or he was in love.

I don't know if I should have stopped being friends with them or tried to stop them from their inevitable explosion. I did neither. I waited. I wanted to see what would happen next.

TO BE CONTINUED!

Reviews are lovely.

A few notes: yes, Jews have Confirmation. It isn't Orthodox, so if you went to Yeshiva you probably didn't learn about it. It's reform and comes from the belief that a thirteen-year-old is not old enough to be considered an adult. However, it is an additional ceremony to the Bar or Bat Mitzvah, not a replacement. I am Jewish, and I Bat Mitzvah'd. Really, I do know what I'm talking about.

Collins is supposed to be from Los Angeles, which is why he has never seen a real autumn.


	6. Mark: Parent Conference Night

Disclaimer: Jonathan Larson owns; I'm just borrowing the characters to express my teenage angst.

MARK

Sixth grade: I make it three weeks. Dad is called into the school for a conference and told that I'm failing math. I'm not just failing math, I have a twenty-seven percent. I'm being moved to a remedial class. "Twenty-seven! Do you even realize what that means, Marcus?" I'm only Marcus when he's angry. "Twenty-seven. Does that sound like a big number to you?"

"W-well… I mean… if it was an age--" Twenty-seven years sounds pretty old to me, but then, I'm only ten years old.

"Fucking… no, Marcus! It's not a big number. Okay? Twenty-seven out of a hundred. It's not a number to be proud of, it's not a number you want people to know. It's that kid, isn't it. That Davis kid--"

"No, Daddy--"

"Doesn't matter. You don't see him. You don't see any of your friends until--look at me, Marcus."

I can't. I can't look at him, I'm too busy watching the floor and trying not to cry. My lip is doing its silly wobbling thing. I shake my head. "No… no…"

"Marcus." He doesn't want argument. "This is for your own good."

"No…" Before I can think, I leap out of my chair and run from the room.

Dad calls after me, "Marcus--" but Mom puts her hand on his shoulder and says, "Just leave him right now."

It was not exactly a feasible setting, but I wanted to have Sadie open her door to a normal bedroom and, when she closed it, be in a forest. This is precisely the reason I wanted to make films. In a play you ask the audience, "Trust me, it's a forest." You have to rely on the actors to convince every person in the house that although we have only one small bush, this is a forest. In a film you don't ask, you tell. This _is_ a forest. You don't have to take my word for it, you can see it here in front of you. To say that this is not be a forest would be insanity itself.

Insanity herself. Pleased with that, I penned it into the margins. It was my latest screenplay, and this one actually a good one, about a Jewish family whose daughter, Sadie, is slowly going mad and the son is trying to tell his parents something, I haven't decided what yet but maybe he's gay, and they are on the verge of divorce. I can't imagine having parents split up. Actually, I can't imagine going mad or telling my parents that I'm gay.

Third grade: "Mr. Cohen, I'm so glad you came. I really want to speak with you about Mark."

"He hasn't been any trouble, has he?"

"Oh, no-- no, not at all. As I'm sure you know, Mark's a very sweet boy and he's extremely helpful, this is the first year I haven't had to offer extra-credit to students who help clean up during lunch recess. Actually, that's what concerns me. I'm afraid Mark isn't mixing well with the other children."

"I'm not sure I follow."

"Well, he doesn't have many friends…" She glanced at me, clinging to my father's hand and staring at the ground. "Mr. Cohen, I can't specifically name any friends of Mark's."

My father didn't have anything to shout about that year. He hadn't any reason to be angry. But he was, anyway. "Well?" he asked in the car on the way home. "What, you don't like the other kids?"

"They don't like me."

"They tell you that?"

"No…"

"Well, then, you don't know, do you? Maybe they just don't know you. So I want you to start talking to them, Marcus. Go up to those kids and introduce yourself, ask if you can play with them. Okay? A boy needs friends."

"Sorry, Daddy…"

I don't mean that I am gay. I'm not. It's a hypothetical. If I was, I don't know how I'd come out. Maybe Collins knows, he's good with empathy for weird types. Musing, I flipped through the pages of my notebook. Somewhere I had written down clever wordplay, and the Sadie pieces needed clever wordplay. Everything had double or hidden or triple meaning, because despite the innate madness in having her step from her room to the jungle, as Sadie met Ethan, her imaginary friend, everything needed to be complex. He was her imagination, and that was her insanity: her imagination creating a better world for her.

Rest assured, no perfect world. Sadie had many dangerous experiences, and she didn't realize Ethan was evil until the very end. Simplicity would destroy that. It had to be very Raymond Chandler, very much… Sadie could easily be a little girl in a play world.

Shit!

I slammed the notebook shut, staring ahead at the wall, eyes wide. I had forgotten all about that picture. My heart thudded against my ribs; I tried to swallow but my throat had gone bone dry. And speaking of bones-- "Not now!" I hissed, then realized that I was whispering to my crotch and it wasn't listening, anyway.

I flipped back to that page, tore it out of my notebook and folded it, first in half, then in half again. If anyone saw this, I was dead. And I mean dead. My father, who barely used physical punishment, would strangle me. That is, if I hadn't died of shame from my mother's thick guilt. It's like drowning in jam.

_Freshman Year: "Who was that woman?" Dad demands. "The one with your teacher. I didn't see a kid around."_

_"That's her partner, Dad."_

_"You have two Spanish teachers? Then why don't you have an A?"_

_"No, Dad--"_

_"Don't take that tone with me."_

_"It's not a tone--"_

_"It is a tone, Marcus, and I don't like it."_

_"Well then why are you doing exactly the same thing to me? It's so hypocritical." Talking back to my father is not in my nature. In fact, that's the last time I did it. But he wouldn't let me finish a sentence, and I barely had a B in Spanish, it was only because of one quiz. Besides which, there hadn't been a tone when he went after me. I think maybe it empowered me to think of myself as a high schooler. Maybe I was basking in Roger's self-confidence a little too much._

_"You know what, Marcus? I'm not going to take this from you. Okay? You understand? Now, I asked you a question, I want an answer."_

_"To which question?" I honestly meant that. He had asked me three questions: Who was she, did I have two teachers and why didn't I have an A in Spanish? How was I supposed to know which question he wanted answered?_

_I said as much to Dad. "Just tell me who that was, Marcus."_

_"I told you already who she is, she's my Spanish teacher's partner."_

_"So you do have two teachers--"_

_"No, Dad. She's her_ life partner_. G-d!" He grabbed my shoulder, bent me over and spanked me. I was fourteen and crying more from the sheer embarrassment of being spanked than from pain. Well, partially from pain. _

_A lot changed after that night. I didn't talk back to my father, in fact I hardly talked to my father. I also dropped out of Spanish class; Dad called the school to register a formal complaint. They explained that it would be unconstitutional to fire a woman for her sexual persuasion. There were no more Spanish classes but I could certainly be moved into an art class--but no, Dad said put him in woodshop. Let's keep that record as homo-free as possible, huh, Dad?_

_That's why I don't think homosexuality is wrong. That's the only reason. If Dad was so afraid of it, then it couldn't be a choice, I knew. No one's scared of a choice. If it's not a choice, it's not wrong._

The front door slammed. "Cindy! Mark!"

_No, no! Not now! _Why did they have to come home now? Ooh… I couldn't get that picture out of my mind, only it wasn't just a picture, it was moving and fast becoming life. My breathing was shallow and--

"Marcus David Cohen!"

_Well, that's one problem solved._ My almost-erection was over. In fact, my testicles were trying to climb inside my body, because when my father uses my full name…

Parent conference night was never a proud moment for me. After watching my parents congratulate Cindy, who had perfect grades though no honors or APs, I had to sit for, "Why do you do this to me, Marcus? Why? It's barely a passing grade! Are you trying to shame me into an early grave? Maybe if you spent less time with your friends, more time studying…" Then, within three minutes of the opening, "Don't cry. Marcus… Mark. Come on, it's okay, Mark. Hey, buddy--"

"But I just want you to be proud of me! And I'm really trying! I'm so stupid! I can't heeeelp it!" That's me, sobbing, with spit sticking to my teeth and lips so that every word is muffled. Meanwhile my father hugs me and explains that he isn't ashamed of me, no, he just knows that a bright kid like me can do better if I try a little harder and he's trying to give me incentive. And I cry myself out, wailing until I've fallen asleep that I _really do try_ to be a good son.

This was about mathematics. I don't know what it is about me, but I can't seem to learn math. Roger tutored me, but ever since Collins started teaching our class two and three times a week I had actually felt smart, like I understood something.

Of course, when I was crying it was never about mathematics. It was about how stupid and useless I was. I even looked goyische, which was probably the reason my refusal to be confirmed upset Dad so much.

"Marcus! Get down here!"

That wasn't an I'll-kick-your-ass shout, but it was definitely a you're-trying-my-patience shout. I pushed back my desk chair, left the room and wandered to the top of the stairs. "Y-yeah?" I asked.

"Down here," Dad said, pointing to the ground in front of him.

_Oh, shit. _Dad did this eye-to-eye thing. If he was shouting at me, he wanted me to look him right in the eye and 'take it like a man.' Usually he didn't bother with that macho stuff, but when I'm in trouble it's always,_ Stand RIGHT HERE and keep your chin up._ I went and stood in front of him, trembling all over.

"Marcus. You have never, ever done this." He showed me my report card. I didn't bother looking, fairly certain there was a D in the math spot instead of a C. "Marcus, are you looking?"

Last year was a model year. Not only did I have a C in Geometry, I had an even lower C in Chemistry. It didn't help that Roger had trouble tutoring me in both subjects. Geometry was his playground and as for Chemistry, well, _"Roger, I need help with my Chemistry"/"Hehehe..."_ My Chemistry teacher suggested perhaps if I stayed away from bad-boy-slash-chemistry-genius Roger Davis and concentrated on my studies, I would do better. My Geometry teacher offered to assign a tutor for community service; he assigned Roger. Dad blew a gasket; between the dishes, laundry and yardwork it didn't matter that I was grounded because I barely had the energy to shower.

"Yes," I lied.

That's about the time I realize that my dad was not shouting. Of course, the bone-crushing hug that followed was a good indication of my math grade, but not good enough for Dad. He needed the entire house to know exactly how I was doing. "An _eighty-six_, MarK!" he cried, still crushing me in that hug. I grinned. "Eighty-six per cent! My son has an _eighty-six percent_ in math!"

"Dad?"

"Hm?"

"I can't breathe."

"Oops." He released me; I took a deep breath and straightened my glasses, grinning inanely. Never before had my father come home from parent conferences and not instructed me to stand here and listen, and keep my chin up and meet his eyes. "Sorry, buddy, I'm just so proud." He ruffled my hair.

My dad has never, ever been like this. I guess he's never exactly hoped for a son who can't swing a bat or tell an isosceles from an equilateral triangle. Briefly I wondered if he would have preferred Roger. Roger plays sports. He's great at math. Or Collins. He's more than brilliant in math, in everything--except history, Collins is not very good at history, but he makes flashcards and is constantly studying.

If I had to trade places, though, I would trade with Roger. I knew that in a heartbeat. One day in my shoes and Roger would stop… stop doing that stuff he does. One day in his shoes and maybe I could understand. Maybe if I knew, I could actually help him.

_Stop it, _I told myself_. This is your night._

I followed Dad into the kitchen, where Mom and Cindy stood by the sink, talking very quietly. The conference night ritual was older than life itself. For Cindy, it was: lay low, sneak up to your room with pizza when Daddy's so busy comforting Mark he won't see you. For Mom, it was: wait until Elias has carried Mark to bed and try to calm him down before he breaks something valuable. So when we walked into the kitchen together, their entire ritual was destroyed. I grinned hugely.

"Mark has a B in math," Dad announced. I grinned. "And he's promised me that by the end of the year, it'll be an A."

_No, I haven't._ But everyone was congratulating me and for once we were going to sit down as a family and eat pizza in celebration. Mom used to try telling Cindy when to turn the oven on and off, but Cindy almost always ended up burning whatever she was supposed to cook, so we had take-out. Well, my parents and Cindy did. Usually I only swallowed guilt and shame.

Not tonight. Tonight I burned my throat with pizza cheese. Tonight was my night, and I was going to enjoy it.

TO BE CONTINUED

Goyische: like a gentile


	7. Collins: Mothers

Disclaimer: Jonathan Larson owns; I'm just borrowing the characters to express my teenage angst. Also Jim Henson owns Sesame Street.

COLLINS

As Halloween approached, the three of us gathered at Mark's house to rehearse our Biology presentation on the digestive system. Roger, being who he is, had asked if we could do the reproductive or excretory system instead, but Mark and I vetoed this immediately. So we were going to teach our Biology class about the human body and how it digests food.

We brought over old socks-- "Washed," Mark had stipulated, glaring at Roger, "_clean_ socks."-- and, using old fabric and glue, made puppets, an activity which consisted mainly of sitting around the kitchen table trying not to confuse the glue bottle with something edible.

Roger pulled an old yellow sock over his hand. He had given it bright blue buttons for eyes and a clump of green hair. "I'm an enzyme," Roger and the puppet said.

"Hi, Enzyme," Mark said. He pulled his puppet on and said in a high pitch, "I'm your gastric juices!"

"Dude, move your hand when you do that," Roger said. "And funk up your intro, it's boring."

Mark scoffed. "Like yours is better!"

For a moment Roger remained silent, then he announced cheerfully, the sock puppet opening its mouth impossibly wide, "I'm Eddie-Eddie-Enzyme!" to which everyone laughed.

"Do you watch Sesame Street?" I asked.

Roger laughed. He never blushes, just laughs and shrugs. "Don't judge," he said, shaking his head.

"Elmo!" Mark cried, giving Roger a hug.

"Big Bird!" Roger grabbed Mark and they swayed dangerously, laughing. When they released one another, Roger turned to me as though seeing me for the first time and announced, "Cookie Monster!" He threw his arms around me. Roger does have a very nice hug for someone who shrinks from contact.

My need for physical intimacy resurfaced tenfold, twisting my gut (duodenum, jejunum, ileum, as my sock puppet would inform the class) twisting and my temperature rising. "Uh, hey, Elmo," I said, half-returning his hug. Much as I would have enjoyed giving Roger an actual hug rather than a sort of almost pat on the back, and much as Roger seemed to need a proper hug, I was closeted and so merely patted him in a playfully condescending manner.

Roger knows how to play. He sighed and let his head rest against my shoulder, which quite easily could have been flirting. I don't know what he meant by it. Maybe Roger was flirting with me, maybe he was just tired or joking around or something, I don't know. Whatever it was, it made me uncomfortable, and I sighed relief as he moved away.

Around that time, I received my first letter from home:

Dear Tom,

Hi. How are you? I'm fine. Everything's good here. I mean, not everything. I've been complaining to the library but still no William Blake to be had.

The fires are burning again. Santa Anas are a marvelous time. The sky was orange yesterday, and driving down the 5 I saw fires burning terribly close. I swear last week I heard coyotes screaming. I think they burned in one of the fires. Terribly romantic and Los Angeles, isn't it?

Have you taken your driving test yet? I can't believe you're not licensed. The weather channel was calling it the last sunny day, so we ditched school and drove out to the beach to swim. It was great, nice weather for surfing and kites. We missed you, Tom. It was pretty damn obvious that you weren't there. New York is on the coast, but it isn't the same, is it? It's the Atlantic, not our Peaceful Ocean. It's not really a place for climbing bluffs and riding bikes and swimming all year round.

The weather channel was wrong, by the way. It always is when it talks about "the last sunny day". It's sunny today and windy. I wake up with knots in my hair…

If anyone asked, I would simply say I had gone to the post office to mail a response to Jessie, which was true. I had written back to her. It's just, I was sending more than merely a personal letter.

On Saturday it rained. Following my mother's general rules for knowing my location, also known as the Parental Information on Locations, Liabilities and Activities Requirements System (PILLARS, for short, one of the many pillars of society), I left a note informing Mom of my location and stuck it under a magnet. Then I peeked to her room--she was asleep. Back down the hall in my room, I lifted my mattress and, propping it up with my shoulder, pulled out my sealed, stamped and addressed college applications.

In the kitchen, I wrapped the applications in aluminium foil to protect them from the rain, then realized the post office might misconstrue the aluminium and instead used a plastic shopping bag. Mom slept on.

I grabbed some bread for breakfast and ran out the door still stuffing it into my mouth and stuffing my torso into a sweater. Under a black umbrella, I ran to the post office, pressing the letters tight against my chest. As careful I was, I had an irrational fear of dropping those letters. Admittedly I had a few days left to rewrite my applications, but I would not manage without my parents noticing the constant work. They had ignored my nocturnal efforts, or not noticed, but this… it was asking too much for them not to notice, I would need entire days.

Reaching the post office was a great relief. There was a bucket set out for umbrellas; I deposited mine, somewhat amused by the splash as it thudded into the plastic bin. Very few people were out, just one old woman with a package, an Asian man in a suit who checked his watch every few seconds, and at the counter a woman in red hospital scrubs to whom the teller said, "Thank you, Mrs. Davis, have a nice day."

"Mrs. Davis?" I stepped out of line. "Excuse me, Mrs. Davis?"

She paused and looked at me, scanning my face for recognition. She had dark hair, splashed with grey though she didn't look much older than forty. Overall she looked little like Roger; she had a square chin, brown eyes and a childish splash of freckles across her nose. Maybe his sister looked like her, but if this was Roger's mom, he must be the dead spit of his father.

"Yes?" she said.

"Hi, are you-- are you-- do you have a son? Are you Roger's mother?"

"Oh!" With a relieved look, she nodded. "Yes, I am. Are you from his school?"

I nodded. "I'm Thomas Collins." It seemed as though we should have met already, with the amount of time Roger and I spent together. I offered my hand and she shook. "I'm new here and Roger's really helped me find my way around. You must be really proud of him." Whether that's true or not, I can't say. Roger was helpful and he didn't exactly hurt people without reason, but at times he could be morbid and caustic enough to terrify any parent.

"Oh… yes," she said. She seemed distracted, not as though she wanted to get away but as though she wanted to focus on the conversation at hand and was unable to do so.

"I should go now, Mrs. Davis. Gotta get these mailed. But it was nice to meet you!"

"Oh... you, too, um…"

"Thomas," I supplied.

Mom was awake by the time I returned home. I stepped inside and she looked up from the kitchen counter, where she was halfway through making breakfast. "Hey," she said. A lot of the books I read talk about women in pajamas and dressing gowns first thing in the morning. Obviously, those authors did not know my mother. She likes her sleep, but the second her eyes open she is wide awake. My mother looks unnatural in pajamas.

"Hey, Mom."

"Mailing a letter back to L.A.?" she asked. I nodded. "Hungry?"

"Always." I started to set the table, plates and cutlery, folded napkins. A squashed bit of bread provides some sustenance and energy, but my mother's proper breakfast is a full meal, not some low-effort snack. "Mom…" Now that I thought about it, my mother was employed as a nurse and there are not many hospitals nearby. "Do you work with someone called Davis?"

She raised her eyes. "Davis?"

"Yeah… I don't know her first name but she's got, um, really dark hair with grey streaks and freckles… she has a bunch of kids."

My mother considered the description for a moment, then nodded. "Yes," she said. "Yes, I know her. Audrey Davis," she said. "Why do you ask?"

"Um… what's she like?" I asked.

"Competent," My mother answered. "She knows what she's doing, but she has no backbone. If someone tells her she's wrong she'll just accept that, no matter who it is." By the time she concluded, we were sitting at the table, ready to eat. Mom kept vegetarian, a condition which in her opinion meant eating eggs, but not chickens. _I flush a human egg down the toilet every month,_ she would tell me. _Now, I wouldn't eat a human egg, but I do toss it out. Think of how many women there are in the world. That many eggs, gone, each month. And those are not fetuses. So neither is it wrong to eat a chicken egg: it's not a chicken._ "There is something wrong with that woman."

I took a bite of toast and considered my next question carefully. Mom hates busybodies. It's the one thing she cannot abide. But Dad says that to let a wrong go unamended, unchallenged, is wrong. This was no matter for Voltaire, Luther, Nietzche. This was no matter for great thinkers. I was a teenager and very much a child and had no desire to cross either of my parents.

"Mom… does Mrs. Davis ever have bruises, like on her face or her arms? Or does she take pills?"

She scowled at me. "Thomas, what's going on? How do you know Audrey Davis?"

"She's my friend Roger's mother. And sometimes Roger has bruises he won't talk about, and he's always in fights so--"

"Thomas, if he doesn't talk about them it's not your business."

"Okay, Mom."

She knew I was placating her. "Thomas," Mom said in her severest tone, "leave it alone."

I nodded, sighed, and grudgingly agreed, "Okay, Mom." We said nothing more on the topic, which is just as well. I hated lying to my mother, but there had been no alternative.

I was buzzed the entire day, unable to overcome the glory of having sent of my college applications. A part of me was terrified: of rejection, of my parents finding out. But there is so little fun in doing that which is right and so much glory in that which is righteous.

TO BE CONTINUED


	8. Roger: When It Rains

Disclaimer: Jonathan Larson owns; I'm just borrowing the characters to express my teenage angst. Douglas Adams created the _Hitchhiker's Guide_ series; it is quite brilliant. Puccini wrote _La Boheme_. _Keep the Home Fires Burning_ is from _Oh, What a Lovely War_. I have no claim to any of these things.

ROGER

Hard to believe we made it eight weeks into school without a heavy, soaking rain, but here it is, pounding us inside. I run to catch Mark and Collins as they head into Jones's first period. "Hey, it's Yellow Duck," I say, giving Mark a shove. He's wearing a yellow plastic raincoat with a yellow plastic rainhat and black galoshes, and actually it's cute, makes him look ten years old, but he only mumbles and blushes when I shove him.

We're late, all of us, but Jones just looks, sighs, and says, "Should I bother today?"

I glance at the class and see what she means. Most students are already horsing around. In the 'smart seats', up in the front of the class, Jennifer is entranced by an oversized pen filled with glitter. Yvonne and Rose are having a private conversation rather loudly about bras:

"I hate when you stand up and they aren't, like… in their cups."

Rose shrugs. "I wouldn't know. I've only ever worn a sports bra," she says. "But, I mean, there's not much there…"

"Guys!" Jones calls, eyes wide in disbelief. "You need to be, like, socialized! In healthy doses until you can normal!" This does no good. Walter, Nick and Matthew are harmonizing Wookie grunts, Jennifer is spinning the novelty pen, and Yvonne and Rose are passing notes, as Rose, who volunteers in a veterinary clinic and animal shelter, explains about socializing and castrating animals. History class is, without a doubt, the most lively. "Okay, Davis, Collins, Mark, get in here already, stop… dribbling on my papers."

Jones tried valiantly, ranting about this being an AP class and no one would believe this if she told them. There is a common misconception that gifted students are well-behaved, do their homework, learn the material and pass tests. It's just not true. Being smart doesn't make us different from normal teenagers. It's the fact that we are different. We're freaks and damn proud of it.

"How did your parents react to the sock puppets?" Mark asks glumly. He's a glum boy is our Mark, and sometimes I think he just needs a hug. But then, I can't just hug him. It--life--doesn't work that way. That would be, well, faggy, and while I wouldn't mind, Mark might.

I shrug. "Haven't seen them. Oh, by the way, thanks for your piss."

He blushes and mumbles. It seems everything I do makes Mark blush and mumble. "What does that mean?" Collins asks. "Did he… he took the urine test for you!" he says a little too loudly, pleased with himself for deducing this. "There's gotta be some law against that."

"There's laws against everything."

"Yes, Roger," Collins says, laughing and rolling his eyes, thoroughly mocking me, "that's right. Stick it to the man. 'Cause you're a real _rock'n'roller_."

I wince. "What the hell is a rock'n'roller? And fuck you, you've never heard me play."

None of the teachers have control that day, not one of them, except for the drama teacher, Trask, who tells us we will be performing today. "So," he asks, gazing across the auditorium at our class, "who's ready? It's okay, it doesn't have to be perfect, but if you want a passing grade you gotta do something. No one?" he asks, scanning the class sadly.

My hand shoots up. There are a few things people don't know about me, a few things they never believe when they hear. One is that I, Roger Michael Davis, am a bootlick. "We're ready, Trask! Me and Mark and Collins. But, uh, one of us is playing a girl."

Trask laughed and nodded. "Okay, that's fine. Which one?"

I shrug. Mark drops his head. "Well," I tell Trask, "I have the highest voice, but, uh, Mark is the prettiest."

That gets a laugh; normally I would grin, but Mark sinks down in his chair and says, "Oh, G-d." He is trying desperately to disappear. I leap up and say, "Never mind, never mind, _I'll_ be Mimi." I want to ask Collins and Mark, So which of you is going to be my boyfriend, but Mark is so humiliated already. I just peel off my jacket--it's hot under those lights!--offer my hand to Collins and say, "Come on, Rodolfo."

He sighs and takes my hand.

The stage opens blank, so I run on and shout out to Trask that we're doing the 'verismo' pieces from La Boheme, Act 3; Collins will be playing Rodolfo, Mark is Marcello, and I am the beautiful Mimi. At this point I do a little curtsy, and the class laughs.

In _The Roger Davis Guide to Being Bad_, there is a chapter concerning allies. It says they must be earned and not by falsity, either, but by truth, for allies are necessary. A bad boy must be charming, the worse the boy the greater the charm. For me, this means that through humor, honesty and avid participation I earn a grudging affection from some of my teachers: Jones, Trask, Feyderstein in math. In English, Townsend is torn. I write brilliant essays, essays that demand A's, but I write them in twenty minutes and spend the remainder of the class reading or doodling or scribbling in my notebook. These are allies.

Principal Thomas has been an ally since the day I was brought into his office for suspected drug possession. I insisted that my constitutional rights were being violated and furthermore that I was being profiled based on my pronounced style and that, friends, is called prejudice. Thomas says hello when he sees me around campus, asks me how I'm doing.

Throughout the entire scene, I never interact with Collins, but I do impersonate him, confiding in Marcello, "He shouts at me all the time: 'You're not for me. Find another. You're not for me.'" As I perform this piece, shouting and pointing at the wings and jumping up and down, Mark shrinks away. At the end of the speech I mutter, "Sorry, Mark. Just playing."

Which is why, at the scene's conclusion as we stand under bright spotlights to take criticism, Trask says, "Davis--great. I love it." I positively glow. "Just a couple things--I missed your line after 'Tell me what to do, Marcello,' and can you make your voice a little higher? Like a girl's?"

"Uh… can't we just make Mimi a boy?" I ask. "We can name her… uh… Mimo?"

Trask laughs. "How about Michael?" he asks. "And yes, that's fine. Michael and Rodolfo." He makes a note in his notebook. That's the thing about our school, it's so liberal. Scarsdale as a community is fairly right-wing, but it seems all the liberals are employed by the school. I find this completely fascinating. The place they have chosen to congregate is the place in which they will have the most impact, the greatest influence on the youth of Scarsdale. We are becoming liberal.

Mark's note is: "You, too, definite personality--all of you guys are great. But it's not the right personality. Marcello isn't afraid of Michael or Rodolfo, he's trying to help. Remember, Davis isn't going to hurt you, he's your friend."

At which point I sling an arm around Mark's shoulders, and he blushes and ducks away. "Hey, that goes for you, too, Davis," Trask says. "You're not strong, you're a meek little girl. When Rodolfo is onstage and you're hiding, be frightened, not fascinated. And Thomas… Thomas. The first part is good, but when you talk about losing Mimi--Michael, you need to be less cocky. Don't play it funny, you're terrified. She's dying. You're going to suffer."

"You sound like an abusive parent," someone in the class calls.

Trask turns and, laughing, says, "You know what, I do, don't I? Okay, look." This is to the three of us. "I like this. I want you to do the entire act, okay? That's your final. You guys and, uh, Rose. Okay? Can you guys work with her as your Musetta? And Davis and Collins, you're not afraid that this is, like, _gay_?"

"No," Collins and I chorus.

We look to Mark, who as Marcello has every right to ask that Musetta not be played by the girl who gave our history class a 20-minute lecture on canine castration and a 10-minute lecture on the Bubonic Plague. But he just shrugs and says, "That's okay."

The bell rings, and despite the various bright signs throughout the school announcing that the bell does not dismiss us, the teacher does, most of the class grabs bags and heads out the door. Collins and Mark head down the stairs off the stage; I take a running leap, nearly crash to my knees upon hitting the floor and sprint up the aisle to grab my bag.

"Hey." As I'm heading out of the auditorium, Collins rests his hand on my elbow. It's amazing how that tiny gesture freezes me, but it's a strange thing, the warmth of his skin. Briefly I wonder what Collins' skin feels like, as the warmth I enjoy is filtered by my wool sweater, but to answer this question I would have to take off the sweater and… I don't show my arms in public. Call it prudence, if you feel kind. And that's not something you say to someone. _Would you touch my arm, please?_ Honestly. "Would you wait for me?" Collins asks.

"Yeah." Of course I will. And here's the thing that bothers me: if he asked me that in public, maybe even just in front of Mark, I wouldn't've said yes. I would've made a joke about homosexuality and Collins being the love of my life. I'm a faker, I can't help it. I hate it, but I am. Luckily Collins asks me in private, so instead of joking I recline against a row of folding chairs. When Mark passes, I reach out and ruffle his hair. "Have a nice weekend, Markie."

He blushes. "You, too."

Collins slings his bookbag over his shoulder and returns. We walk out of school and towards Saint Augustine's, where I'll pick up my sister. "So, what's going on?" I ask.

"I met your mom last week," he announces.

The way Collins says this, he seems to think the words have deep meaning. He met my mother. I don't mind. A lot of people know my mom. She's a great person. She used to bake for elementary school bake sales and help plan carnivals and things. Just about anyone who went to Saint Augustine's in the past two decades knows my mother, albeit probably through his mother. "Uh-huh," I say.

"She seemed… nice… but… is she okay?"

My skin turns cold. "What do you mean?"

Collins takes a deep breath. "Look, all I'm saying is your mom's really out of it, and you're always coming to school with these bruises--"

I stop. We're only two blocks from Saint Augustine's, and I cannot let him carry on with this, especially not in front of Sarah. "What are you implying, Tom?" I ask.

"Just that maybe something isn't right."

"Stop it!" Before I know what I'm doing, I've shoved him. It doesn't faze him in the least: he's probably four inches bigger than me and is built like a bear, whereas I am built like a girl. But the point is across, and now that I've crossed that line there's no going back. "Stop… stop not saying things! What is it, Thomas? What do you think?" I demand.

"I think your father beats you," he says. It stops my heart to hear. Suddenly my jacket is soaking wet, my hair, all clinging, and I can't breathe. "I think he hits you, Roger, and he hits her, too, and I think she's either in deep denial or using pills or both."

For a long time, all I can do is stare. We're standing here in the pouring rain, just staring, watching one another, and I'm the one who backs down, shaking my head. "You don't know what you're talking about," I say.

"Then tell me."

"I'll tell you this," I say, "don't ever talk about my family again. Okay? Ever."

Collins shakes his head. "You can't threaten me, Roger," he says. "It won't work. I'm not afraid of you."

"Then what's it going to take?" I ask. "How can I convince you that you're just a boy who doesn't like having to adjust to life in the suburbs? You're looking for drama because you're from Los Angeles where there are whores and junkies on every corner, and Scarsdale is boring, and you're just using me to try to spice up your existence!"

"The truth," he says. "Just tell me the truth, Roger."

"The truth is, my dad works. A lot, like all the time, and so does my mom. Hell, he's not home often enough to beat me, and he certainly wouldn't beat her!"

Where does anyone get ideas like that? I'm fuming even after I walk away. Who says that sort of thing about someone's family? It's not just rude, it's offensive. I am not being abused. Possibly emotionally neglected, but that's my own fault for being so standoffish and difficult to be around. But abused? Absolutely not. My parents love me.

---

The phone rings. "Hello?"

Officially, my sister Marcy is in charge. After Peter, she's the oldest in the family; I don't know much about her. I don't know how old she is. I don't know if she enjoys her secretarial position. I don't know what she likes to wear, eat, or if she has hobbies. What I do know is that she isn't watching me and Sarah, she's screwing her boyfriend.

"Roger? Where's your sister? Put Marcy on."

"Uhh…" I glance at the stairs. Is it worth telling him what Marcy's up to? "She's in the shower." Why make things more unpleasant?

"Okay," Dad says. "Well, when she gets out, tell her that your mother is going to work late tonight, so I'll be home around eight."

"Okay."

I know I won't tell Marcy. She's usually asleep by eight o'clock; hoping she won't deviate from her pattern, I just make sure that I have Sarah fed by seven, after which I wash the dishes. It's pretty miserable to be dragged out of bed at midnight to wash the dishes from dinner, doubly miserable from a good dream and triply miserable if the dishes have already been washed, just not very thoroughly. The absolute worst is being woken from a wet dream. My parents are Catholics, but they're kind of Catholic Lite-- until they catch me touching myself. Then they're hardcore Catholic.

My parents are pretty anal about dishes and that stuff. Responsibility's a big issue, which I guess makes sense. After all, their second kid dropped out of high school and is currently down in the basement with her boyfriend, hopefully using a condom. So, I settle in to wash the dishes: roll up my sleeves, then lift Sarah onto the counter. She knows the routine, and grabs a much-loved and thoroughly abused book from behind the toaster.

"Chapter nine," she reads. "'A computer chattered to itself in alarm as it noticed an airlock open and close itself for no apparent reason…'" I gave her _The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_ about a week ago, and she loves it. Every night while I wash the dishes, Sarah sits on the counter and reads a chapter out loud. The obscurity is ideal for her age; reading anything is ideal for any age. As for me, I get the story. "Roger," she asks, "what's as-fix-i-a-tion?"

"Asphyxiation," I tell her. "It means not being able to breathe because there's no oxygen."

"Asphyxiation," she says. "'A team of seven three-foot-high market analysts fell out of it and died, partly of asphyxiation, partly of surprise.' Roger?"

"Hm?" I focus more on the plate I'm scrubbing than on her.

She chews her lip for a moment. "Daddy's a market analyst."

I laugh. "Daddy's a systems analyst, it's totally different." Not, of course, that it would make a complete difference in our lives if he wasn't around anymore. I told Collins the truth, my father loves his job far more than he loves his family. "Keep reading."

She finishes Chapter Eleven at half-past seven, around the time I finish the dishes. "Okay," I decree. "Bedtime. Come on."

"No!" Sarah whines. "Not yet!" Sarah and I look nothing alike at first glance, except of course for having curly hair somewhere between brown and blond. People see her brown eyes and her smile, and me, green-eyed and scowling, and wonder how we could possibly be related. But any picture of us sleeping shows the similarities.

"Yes." She's got my stubbornness, too. Because this is an acquired trait, I take credit for it. I dry my hands on my jeans and lift Sarah off the counter. "It's half-seven."

She wraps her arms around my neck. "I'm not tired," she says. "I wanna stay with you."

"Uh… no. I'm doing Calc. You won't like it." I'm already on the stairs, carrying my sister, who seems to think she can burrow into my shoulder.

"I'll like it," she promises. "I like math. I do good at fractions. Don't I?"

"Yeah." We reached the second story. There are three bedrooms in the house, my parents' room, my room, and Sarah's room. Marcy lives in the basement and supposedly keeps the house clean, cooks and minds us for her room and board. Bullshit, any of it. I set Sarah down on her bed. "Let go." She does. "Okay?"

She sighs and stares at me, imparting the knowledge that no, this is not okay. And I know it's not. It's not fair. Mom went back to work shortly before conceiving my sister, so though I grew up able to run to my mother with skinned knees and nightmares, all Sarah's ever had is me, and I let her down fairly often enough, too busy being angry, self-involved.

I do not get high around Sarah. I don't. I'm a worthless peon, maybe, gone beyond caring, beyond anyone caring. My life is fairly useless. Her isn't.

I sighed. "Okay. So what can I do to make this okay?"

"A song."

There's one I've never heard before. It's always a hug or a song. The material consumerism of America has fully bypassed this kid. Sad, really, because consumerism is the culture of America. Sarah, therefor, has no culture, which one might argue gives her the chance to be completely unique. "Which song?"

"One of yours."

"Uh…" My songs tend to be less than completely appropriate for someone her age. "How about something else?"

She pouts. "'Home Fires'," she says, when I won't relent.

"Okay. Get in bed." As she does, I shut off the lights. Sarah says my name furiously; I open the door to admit the light. "I know, I know." I kneel and plug in her nightlight. The room is green now, which sends shivers down my spine but seems to comfort her. "Okay?"

"Yeah."

Some of the lyrics of 'Keep the Home Fires Burning' are less than appropriate in theme for someone Sarah's age, but I doubt she understands what the words mean as I croon the advice, "'Although your heart is breaking, make it sing this cheery song…'"

She hardly seems to care for the words, though. By the time I've finished the song, she has her eyes closed and her breathing has steadied. It's barely seven-forty, but Sarah, I know, will be asleep in no time.

I kiss her forehead. "Je t'aime, baby."

She yawns. "Je t'aime, Roger."

I may not be a good son, or a good friend, as Collins' accusation today suggests, but at least I can feel like a good brother.

---

Late that night, I'm sitting up in bed trying to write a song, but the words won't come. I'm distracted by everything. It's raining, thunder and lightning pounding and flashing in rapid succession. I never can remember which comes first, but it's fun to sit here and watch the lightning through the window. I have the curtains drawn open. Usually this inspires me, it matches my internal turmoil/anger.

There are two perfect times for me to write: moments of perfect balance, in which the weather is as angry or happy as I am and I do not decide on the words, they are simply there; or when I'm feeling so much I can't stand it, and the process is not writing as much as osmosis. I don't understand it. It's not a process I control. I know this, though: it's not something I can stop. I have to write, and sing, and play guitar. Without self-expression… well, there's not much point, is there?

A particularly loud growl of thunder shudders the house. I raise my eyes. The lights flicker, and I consider leaving the room now. Sarah hates the dark, and if the lights go out it's me she'll be looking for. That's the trouble with kids. You can't just hug them once in a while. It's not enough to walk them home from school and listen to them complain about the penguins and give them books to read. It's a constant job. It means holding them and singing to them through sickness, nightmares, whatever causes tears.

I should be used to this. I'm not, but I should be. If I was used to it, I wouldn't have gone to sleep when the lights flickered. I would have gone to Sarah's room. And when, later, the lights went out, I would have already been there instead of stumbling out of bed and down the hall, by which point my father has reached Sarah's room.

"What's wrong?" I hear him ask. "Calm down! What's wrong?"

I get into the room, Sarah's screaming as loudly as she possibly can and she's crying, completely hysterical. Dad has her by the shoulders, probably fairly frightened himself, but he's only scaring her more. I see all this in a lightning flash, then bite my lip, push forward and shove Dad away. "Stop it!" I snap. "You're scaring her!" And without a further word I kneel on the bed. Sarah has pressed herself against the far wall. "Hey, Sair… you okay? Sarah, come on, it's me, it's Roger. Come on."

She jumps into my arms and whimpers my name. "Hey," I tell her. "Hey, shh…" because she's crying. "Shh, it's okay. Sarah, it's okay, it's okay, shh." I hold her, my arms wrapping her tightly, her face pressed against my chest. The important thing is for Sarah to feel safe. It's not the same darkness if it's obscurity.

And most disturbing is that as she clings to me, she sobs, "I could see them, I could see them, Roger, I could see them."

TO BE CONTINUED

Yeah, the length of this one... it just got away on me. Heh. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed! And reviews are always appreciated (hint, hint).


	9. Mark: Losing It

Disclaimer: RENT and its characters, places, etc. are the creations of Jonathan Larson, the late, great son of Mother Earth. I'm just borrowing them and mean him every respect. Also I have no claim to _Civil Disobedience_ or _I Never Promised You a Rose Garden, _though the latter is a very good read.

MARK

When my grandfather started dying--or perhaps not started. He was sick for a long, long time. All my life, he had cancer. But when his illness reached the point of no return, when I began to tremble around him with the knowledge that this might be our last moment together, I started to lose balance. That's literal. I would stumble, drop things, lose my footing almost constantly. This was because of a dizzy, spinning sensation surrounding me. It was a constant nausea, like being wrapped up in a tornado, turned and turned…

During that period I lost a lot of weight and my grades dropped because I was having trouble reading. Another model report card:

"The math… I understand that, Marcus. I expect that. But English? You have a C in English_? What the hell are you scribbling in those notebooks all the time that earns you a C in English?"_

The notebooks were my anchor, my escape, but more and more the reality of what I was doing had started to hit, and writing left me with a piercing headache. _"I don't know… the words keep blurring."_ We went to the optometrist, who declared my eyes perfectly sound. My dad accused me of lying to him and grounded me until my grades rose.

After a while, though, there was one place he had to allow me to visit: the hospital. Mark Cohen, Sr., was beginning to die, and the family would visit him, Cindy with a magazine to read, Mom usually just hugging Dad's shoulders, and me, wishing this didn't have to be the last moment. As much as those minutes hurt me, I wished I could prolong them, keep them for eternity to keep my grandfather alive.

That was when I bought the camera, started filming, vision returned, grades rose… and when Mark Cohen, Sr., did die, I ended up in Roger's room, unable to face my family and the knowledge that I was in very little pain because I had detached myself. My tears were so… so fucking selfish…

The tornado had gone shortly after I bought my camera, but it returned in junior year, beginning at lunch one day when Collins and I were holed up in our usual spot, on the stairs to the mathematics classrooms. The vending machines were near the foot of the stairs; Roger approached without noticing us, bought something (I've no idea what) unhealthy enough to shred his gullet, and turned.

I called to him: "Hey, Rog!"

When he turned, I was waving furiously. He gave a little toss of his head that might have meant acknowledgement, raised his hand in an almost-wave, and turned to go. I sank, retreated into myself. Suddenly the bite of sandwich in my mouth tasted like lead. I packed up my lunch.

"Mark, he's mad at _me_," Collins said. "It's not you."

I shrugged. There are plenty of moments in which I have failed Roger, as a friend. Plenty of times I should have been there, but wasn't.

"I offended him," Collins explained. "He's sulking, he'll get over it."

By the time we arrived in the library, Roger had grabbed a stack of biographies and disappeared into the 921s to shelve them. Our library group had four students, the fourth a shy boy named Jeremy who had yet to speak a word to any of us. That day he was absent. "You do the circulation desk, okay, Mark? You know how to do that?"

I nodded. "It's pretty straightforward," I said.

And by coincidence, just as Collins was returning to take another stack of books to shelve, Roger stalked past us, his head down, his left hand curled loosely. Anyone else might have thought this a vicious gesture, but I knew better. "Roger--" I called his name, and that was all. Just his name, and the word died fighting in my throat. He glanced at me. All I could muster for his sake was one pleading, pathetic expression.

Roger shook his head and left.

"He's just going to the bathroom, probably to smoke," Collins said.

"You don't know!" I snapped. I don't snap often, and Collins, rather than take offense, raised his eyebrows, questioning. "You don't," I repeated, softly, shaking my head. Roger wasn't going to smoke; if he did light up, the cigarette would never touch his lips. He would press the burning end against his arm. He promised he would try to stop. He did promise me that. "It's…" I licked my lips, then shook my head again. Why bother? I couldn't very well tell him. I don't tell other people's secrets.

He just shrugged and walked off, back to shelve a bunch of 329s from a class doing reports on violence and drugs. Watching him walk away, I sighed and covered my face with my hands. I hated having anyone displeased with me. For some, like Roger, it's easy to be shouted at. Some people let that stuff roll right over them, they ignore it. I'm not that kind of strong. I cry when people shout at me.

I glanced behind me. The librarian was on the telephone.

I hopped off my chair and left the circulation desk. Collins was near the back of our pathetic library, shelving with unnecessary violence. "Have they wronged you?" I asked.

"What?"

"The books. It was a joke. Wasn't very good," I admitted.

Collins laughed. "No, that it was not. Still. You tried."

"Yeah…"

Girls are lucky. Girls have an excuse to be crybabies once a month; they randomly burst into tears or can punch you, hard, and they aren't in trouble because _you don't know what it's like, Mark, can't you try to be a little understanding?_ Me, I'm a wimp. "Yeah, I try," I muttered, then started to cry, because I do try. I do. I try to earn high grades, I try to make my parents love me, I try to help Roger. It never works, any of it, because I'm just so fucking stupid and invisible and unimportant. And nobody cares, not even Roger, who's my best friend and has always been there and made me feel good about myself, and suddenly he only cares about, well, about himself, and…

I have no idea where this is coming from; I've never consciously thought any of it. It's more something I feel and try to push to the back of my mind, something I try very hard to ignore without thinking of ignoring. Partially this explains why it surprises me to realize this, and doubly why I'm surprised to suddenly be standing in the library, completely exposed, crying softly but very messily.

Collins dealt well with the situation. He walked up to me and hugged me. I didn't move into it, just kept crying, but it felt good not to be alone, to have someone give a damn. Normally that would be Roger hugging me, not making me cry. That knowledge made me cry harder.

"I'm really sorry," I told Collins. He shouldn't have had to cope with my meltdown.

"It's okay, Mark. You're well overdue for a breakdown."

I started laughing and I couldn't stop.

After that, it was just me and Collins. Roger stopped sitting with us in class, so one might say he caused the schism, but whenever I saw him on the tarmac I kept my head down. He got into more and more fights, so many we almost forgot what his face looked like, it was so often disfigured.

"What _happened_, Roger?" Mr. Townsend, our English teacher, asked one day, shocked by Roger's fresh black eye and split lip. His cheek was still a fading, smudged yellow from the previous fight.

"He called me stupid," Roger answered, his voice fierce.

"I meant to you,"Townsend muttered.

Collins helped me with my math, and the A my father had imagined drew nearer and nearer as my homework papers were returned with full marks. Collins also lent me some of his favorite books. I had never before read anything like this; it was as though my mind was expanding like the pupils of my eyes, new pathways opening.

Previously, the most controversial literature I had ever read was _The Lord of the Rings_. Collins gave me Thoreau's _Civil Disobedience_. I read the entire thing in one night, with a flashlight beneath the blankets, and returned it the following morning.

"It's… it's… it's brilliant," I stammered.

"You agree with him?" Collins asked.

I nodded vigorously. "Completely."

"Yeah?"

"Uh-huh."

"I think he's a maniac. Did you understand all of it?" he managed to ask without condescending, and I admitted that at some points I had been confused.

That day at lunch, we sat with our heads together over the book, going over different passages, and I saw completely what Collins meant. Thoreau _was_ a zealot, he was so far gone he had stopped seeing people and saw only concepts. "It's important to keep your mind in the real world," Collins reflected.

"Yeah," I said, blushing, feeling like a hypocrite.

One book was by Hannah Green. When he handed it to me with the same casual gravity with which Collins relinquished all of his books, I wrinkled my nose. "This doesn't really look like… um… a book for guys," I said. The cover was plain, an unadorned brown, but the title, imprinted in shining blue letters on the spine, was _I Never Promised You a Rose Garden_.

"Get over that," Collins advised, "because it's brilliant. And it's true."

I worried about what my father would say. Even so, I kept the book tucked safely away in my bookbag, near the bottom where no one would notice.

That night, I worked on my play. It was progressing admirably, leading to a climax I already saw in my mind in which Matt comes out of the closet at dinner one night, and Sadie actively stands, leaves the table and returns to the forest, without a single member of the family noticing her absence. In fact, they continue directly addressing her as though she was still there.

By the end, I knew Matt and Alex would break up. Alex was pressuring Matt to tell his parents about their relationship, and when Matt did that, he learned that he had to live his own life regardless of anyone's opinion or dominion, including his father and his boyfriend.

I wrote in the position my body unconsciously adopted: feet curled to rest on bracing supports of the chair, my nose nearly pressed against the page, elbows out. I never remembered getting into this position, but always seemed to re-emerge in it.

My dad knocked on the door and entered the room without awaiting a response. "Mark," he said, "it's ten-thirty. You should be in bed."

"Just five more minutes?" I asked.

"Okay. Five minutes. But I'm coming back here in five minutes, and you had better be asleep by then!" With that, he left me alone.

I flipped to the back of the notebook, where in the pocket I had hidden the picture. It was a silly thing, done in pen and black ink, but surprisingly well-drawn for me, a boy of no discernible artistic talent. I had given him long eyelashes, perhaps a tad longer than in real life, and drawn intricate spiral designs on his fingertips, which in reality are hard as stones.

None of this would have warranted keeping the picture hidden. It could have simply been a sketch done in my spare time, done out of boredom, a practice based on what I saw. The difficulty in this justification was that it was an incredibly erotic image--for me, at least. One aspect over which I agonized in the drawing was circumcision. I know he's not circumcised, but I am and mine is the only one I really have intimate knowledge of. I don't know exactly what one looks like, not circumcised, so I drew him circumcised.

I'm not gay. Really, I'm not, I look at girls. Well, sometimes. I can't stand those soft girls, who are thin as wisps and giggle quietly, who listen and remember every word a boy says. I can't be around them; I'm terrified I'll hurt them. I'm all right with slightly dominating girls, though. That's why I didn't mind having Rose in our mini-production of Act 3 from La Boheme: she's hardly a girl at all, won't develop a crush, won't be needy. I can work with girls like her.

Thus, I'm not gay. From a logical standpoint, this is probably just an extension of friendship. I, often a lonely boy especially in formative years, develop a friendship and desire an extension thereof. I want to be closer to someone and instead of simply accepting friendship as closeness, my over-analytical brain has resolved that the logical progression of intimacies is romantic love.

Put simply, I was a horny teenager and I didn't have emotional bonds with many people.

Three of my five minutes were up. I folded the picture and tucked it carefully away, closed my notebook and got in bed.

My eyes itched. Every time I closed them, I saw the picture. My mind raced, trying to trick me into thinking of it, into masturbating to the thought. Unable to help myself, I flung back the covers and sought a distraction. That was why I opened the book Collins had leant me.

I immediately identified with the characters of the parents, watching their young daughter, Deborah,lose her mind, having watched my best friend lose his will after so many years. Their fragile buoyancy, how they tried so hard to comfort themselves that what they did was right as they knew it helped nothing, paralleled my own struggles with Roger.

But as I read, I stopped seeing through their eyes. The further I progressed into the story, the more I knew that I was the protagonist, the girl who created a world of her own when life became too difficult, the isolated, bright youth. The madwoman, I realized, was me.

A few of her defining features happened to be mine also: blond hair, Jewish, teenage. So what if she was a girl? I was Deborah, regardless of gender. And her problem of dangerous escapism was mine, also. Roger was severely depressed, no question, but I was the one whose madness threatened destruction.

When Deborah sliced open her arm, I climbed out of bed, trembling. I left the room, glanced carefully up and down the hall. My father was fast asleep. I heard him snoring. As for my mother, she was breathing deeply enough to indicate a similar state. I bolted down the stairs.

"Hello?"

The voice was tired and a little surprised. I glanced at the clock. _Oops_. It was nearly midnight. "Sorry--"

"Mark?"

"I--yeah," I admitted, blushing. I sat beneath the kitchen table with my legs drawn up to my chest, one arm wrapped tightly around them. "I'm sorry--"

"No, no, it's okay." Collins sounded more awake by the second. He sighed. "I… what's up? Did you read it?"

I nodded. _Oops_. He couldn't see me nodding, of course. "Yeah," I whispered. "I read it. And you gotta know…" I licked my lips. "I would never do anything like that. Ever." As though I could affirm it by telling him.

"I know," he said. "I know that, Mark."

"I… isn't that why you gave it to me? As a warning?" Was this what he wanted, this fear, this wariness?

But Collins claimed otherwise. "No, man, it's not. I gave it to you because I think it's an important book. It's beautiful, it's true."

"It's… true?"

"Uh-huh."

For a long moment we sat silently. I listened to the sounds of the house at rest: my father's snoring, the ticking of the clock. "Thomas?" I asked quietly. My voice emerged like a sob.

"I'm here."

"I'm really scared," I admitted. My throat had gone tight; I squeezed my eyes shut. "I'm terrified," I whispered. "I can't… I don't… I don't want to give it up. While I was reading, I…" I took a deep breath. "I realized that in… in the screenplay I'm writing, one of the characters is going through what Deborah went through. She has this… imaginary friend and she doesn't know if he's real or not," I explained. "What if I don't know?"

"You do know, Mark. This is real. This."

"Sometimes I feel like my throat's closing up and I can't breathe or hear very well, like there's wind in my ears," I said. "My heart hurts and… I…" I didn't know what else to say.

Collins paused, maybe waiting to see if I was going to finish that sentence. "Mark," he said, "that's panic. Look, I don't think you're mad, like she was, but you're… in pain. It's not fair, what you have to deal with."

"It's not!" To hear it said by someone else! That validified my feeling, made it true rather than self-pitying.

"And you do it without complaint and without help. And that's really tough. Mark?"

"Yeah?"

"If you're scared of losing yourself… don't be. I won't let that happen, Mark, to either of you."

There was no reason for me to believe him. How could he possibly keep my mind from slipping? But when he said those words with such confidence and ferocity, I don't know why, but I believed him. I swallowed the lump of tears in my throat and nodded. "Thank you."

We said good-bye and good morning, since it was past midnight, and hung up. I crept back to bed, and it was only then that I realized what Collins had said. _To either of you_. Where was Roger? What was he doing? Or who was doing what to him?

I bit my lip. I never could do anything to protect him, I, scrawny, polite, powerless little Mark. Collins could. He would. He promised.

I pushed my face into my pillow and slept.

TO BE CONTINUED!

Hey, and also thanks to everyone who reviewed. I really love hearing from you guys!


	10. Collins: Birthday

Disclaimer: Jonathan Larson owns; I'm just borrowing the characters to express my teenage angst. Also Teddy Roosevelt and Voltaire belong to history, the places mentioned are mostly real and thus clearly not mine.

WARNING: This chapter contains some derogatory words used to describe homosexuals. I hope no one is offended and I certainly did not use the words to offend or to express my views, but they're realistic, that's why I used them.

COLLINS

On November first, during the five-minute interval between my emergence from my bedroom and my father leaving for work, Dad turned to me and asked, "Thought any on your birthday, Tom?"

"Not really," I said. "I've been busy."

My birthday? Already? Honestly and somewhat pathetically, I was a little surprised. Despite the progression of our classes, despite having the blocking almost perfect in Drama and studying both mammlian/floral reproduction and Theodore Roosevelt, as Roger had so savored, the passage of time had eluded me. I completely ignored my studies, doing the homework and reading but neither paying attention nor needing to, and counted the days as important only when I was with Mark.

I loved being with him. We talked almost entirely about philosophy and history, spent lunch hours poring over books from the great thinkers. Around November we had gotten into Voltaire, and would discuss implications of diction at great length throughout fifth period Library Practice.

"It must be a lot of responsibility," Mark said one day. "I don't know that I could manage."

"What?" I asked.

We were in the back of the room, shelving books. "Translating," Mark explained. "Even if you know a language really well, two languages--which I don't--what do you keep? Can you make the jokes carry over without their sounding clumsy? Is it a disservice to the author to ignore wordplay? And what if you can only keep such cleverness by losing the _meaning_? And isn't wordplay part of the meaning? I mean, the author is trying to be clever and succeeding, but also saying something." He shrugged.

I was gawking. This was the most I had heard Mark speak at once since meeting him. Even when he was crying, the boy went silent. "Anyway, I was just thinking it," Mark concluded. "I was wondering how it goes in the original: 'All for the best in the best of all possible worlds,'" he said, quoting from _Candide._

"I don't know," I admitted. "We did translations in third-year Latin and my Spanish classes back in Los Angeles."

"Oh. How did you do it?"

"Mostly literally," I told him. "But that was for a grade or a test, so that's what they wanted. To see that you understood. I guess you might say that educators discourage keeping in the wordplay, in that sense. APs are ruining education."

On November first, in the kitchen, my father nodded. "Start thinking," he suggested, "and let me know."

"Okay," I promised.

"You need a ride to school?"

I wanted to walk. It was a nice day, cold, as is a novelty for an Angelino. I wanted to dawdle along the sidewalk and watch the leaves float on the back of the wind, a phenomenon I could not aptly describe in my latest letter to Jessie. _You have to see it,_ I wrote. _Films don't measure up. They capture the act, but not the spirit of the act. The sound isn't right. It should be wind and nature. And the way the wind bites at your arms, it's so alive. The air is alive. I wish you could be here. I think you'd appreciate it._

_It's funny, everyone here has grown up with this, so it's not a phenomenon to them. People tell me, "Yes, Thomas, the seasons change," as though speaking to a child. But the same people marvel when I tell them that one year ago my friends and I went hiking at the beach._

_Look, this may be a weird thing to ask like this, but are you doing okay? Socially? Everything-ly?_

"Sure." I didn't see my dad much. I saw him--we lived together, knew one another well, but our actual interacts were limited to the occasional dinner conversation and our five-minute interactions in the mornings. "I'd love a ride, it's freezing out." I'd also love to stand in the cold and let it sink thoroughly into my bones, bury the memory deep in the RNA coding.

First period was a test, so Mark and I didn't talk until passing period. "Mark! Listen, you wanna go into the city?" I asked. That's what my parents have always done for my birthday: taken me and a friend to an art exhibit at MOCA or LACMA, or to the La Brea Tar Pits and Museum of Natural History.

At first it was me and Steven, a boy from my year at school who happened to live down the street. We were inseparable for years, spent nights together, it reached the point where our parents were willing to scold either of us, as though we belonged to both moms and both dads. Then when I was in third grade I asked Steven if I could kiss him. In my defense, he said yes. We kissed.

Many people believe that Los Angeles, a large city with just about every type of person imaginable, is completely liberal. It's not. Steven told his parents about the kiss. They were extremely upset. Although my parents defended me to them, claiming at our age we didn't know the first thing about sex drives and had probably just seen kissing in a film, they sat me down for a very serious talk about this matter.

"_Tommy, most boys don't kiss boys. Most boys kiss girls. Now, what happened between you and Steven is not _wrong._" They emphasized the word to tell me it was not, but _wrong_ is what stuck in my mind. "No one is angry, we just want you to understand why… um… why Steven's parents were so frightened. It's not normal behavior, and that scares some people."_

_"Girls are gross."_

_"Well, you think that now, but give it a few years--"_

_"So I'll kiss girls in a few years! But right _now_ I want to kiss _boys._" This made perfectly good sense to me. Unfortunately, neither my parents nor the school administrators saw it this way, nor did the kid who wrote _Tommy Collins is a faggot_ in magic marker in the hallway._

_I ended up in the principal's office with Samuel Durggin after that. "Samuel has something to say to you, Thomas."_

_"Sorry," Samuel spat. I said I forgave him. Neither of us meant it: I hadn't been angry, only hurt, so I felt I had nothing to forgive him for. Samuel hissed, "Fag!" whenever he passed me in the halls. And that really hurt. I was just a kid, I didn't know how to take that. I also didn't know what it meant._

_I didn't want my parents to know, so I looked up the word in the dictionary. My mother heard me muttering the definition to myself. "What word is that?" she asked me. This was during the two-day suspension period the school gave me after Samuel wrote that on the walls. He wasn't suspended, just had to wash a wall. I was suspended. To this day, I do not know why._

_"Um…" I knew it wasn't a word a person ought to say, but my mother had asked a question and it would also be rude not to answer her. Besides this, I didn't understand how being called a piece of wood was an insult. "What's faggot?" I blurted._

_"It's a very bad word," she said, "one I had better not catch you saying again."_

_"Okay, but what is it?"_

_"It's… it's someone who… leads a different kind of life."_

_"That's bad?"_

Needless to say, throughout most of third grade, fourth grade and fifth grade I was very much alone. When I reached middle school, my parents found a program in the San Fernando Valley designed for students like me: highly gifted students, or advanced learners. What that meant was freaks. We were offered our first taste of an Advanced Placement, a college-level course, in the eighth grade. Naturally we erred towards eccentric.

That was great, for me. It was perfect. Higher courses and the chance to use the word "cummerbund" in a sentence, thanks to my exuberant rendition of "You Can't Always Get What You Want". I can just imagine what Roger would think of that word. Luckily, from that perspective, Scarsdale offered little in the way of choir unless I wanted to sing for the Seventh Day Adventist church, which was fifteen miles away.

And it was this program that brought me to my best friends, beginning with the Hispanic girl who raised her hand in history class after the teacher explained that the Romans tried to absorb conquered peoples into their culture. "Yes?"

This skinny little kid with dreadlocks and henna tattoos from Venice Beach said, "Well that doesn't make it _right_." and I knew, immediately, that I wanted to be her friend.

"Mark," I prodded, as we hurried to English. "Well?"

"I… don't get it," he admitted.

"It's my birthday," I elaborated, "in two weeks. Big day. I'll be sixteen. My parents are taking me into the city-- well, my dad is, anyway-- to do something, like go to a museum or something. Would you like to come?"

"Yeah, I'd love to, um, if my parents will let me."

Mark's parents wanted to meet my parents, and wanted my father to assure them that we would be safe and chaperoned the _entire time_. They needed to know that Mark would call them periodically, and at what time he would arrive home. But finally, after much deliberation and assurances that my father absolutely would not let us out of his sight, Mark's parents agreed to let him come.

The first thing my dad said on the train was, "Okay, I'll leave you two alone for a while. I'll be back before we get to the station, and Thomas, _do not hurt the train_."

I blushed and laughed. "Come on, Dad, I haven't done that since I was ten."

"What did you do?" Mark wondered once we were alone.

I shrugged. "I took the train apart a little bit," I said. "I'd always done it with my toy trains. So I saw this piece that was screwed on and I took it off to see what was inside."

We chatted for a while about general nothingness, then Mark said, "Thank you so much for inviting me." He had already said this at least six times, but seemed to need to repeat it, as though there was some piece he had left out. At last he said it: "I just hope… well… that I can help make the day really special."

"Mark…" It's tough to say the right thing to something like that. "You're my friend," I managed at last. Did he truly mean, as he seemed to, that he hoped his friendship was enough?

"Well… I'm sure that you've had other birthdays with… better friends and… I'm sorry about my… issues, I just can't… leave them at home…"

"Mark, seriously. You're my friend. I just want to hang out with you, that's why I invited you."

He muttered, "As Roger says, I have baggage."

That shocked me. Roger Davis, smokes like a chimney, drinks like a fish, Roger Davis who believed our fish was being murdered in science class, Roger Davis who appears with mysterious bruises and slugs kids for less than nothing, said that _Mark_ had baggage?

When I expressed my disbelief, Mark said, "No, no, that's what he says. He says that _he_ has baggage. I was saying that I do. Not too clearly, I guess."

At least that made more sense. There was something I had wanted to tell him for some time but was afraid to mention, one of the many social ills I kept stuffed beneath the mattress. I knew it would help Mark to know, but felt like a traitor saying it and was afraid of what he would think. At the same time, I knew that I didn't care what he thought. I did care. "When I turned thirteen," I blurted, "my best friend had just been released from an institution."

Mark knew what I meant, but seemed unable to believe it. "A… like a private school?" he asked.

"No, a mental hospital," I said.

"Oh. I'm sorry."

I shrugged. "Don't be. She's not."

"So… it helped her?"

I shook my head. "No, Mark, she hated it. She hated it. And when she came out, she was in worse shape than when she went in. All the hospital helped with was giving her the belief that she could manage for herself. She told me it taught her what it was like to have no control, to be deemed unfit."

Mark needed that story. I think, despite his trembling and shock murmurs throughout the rest of the train ride, he needed to hear about Jessie. The truth is that I was terrified of losing Mark. I hadn't been enough for her. I wouldn't be enough for him. I was playing my wild card, playing a card I had no right to play. I wanted to ask her. I had done it subtly enough, writing, _I have a friend who is worried he's going mad. _She never gave me permission to speak of her, but never denied it.

I was taking a leap of faith that she would permit it. I think she would. Jessie wanted to tell everyone, make sure everyone knew that sanitariums are bad places. That alienated everyone but me, and I still haven't forgiven myself for not being enough to keep her out. "Tom," she would say, "don't. I think I had to. It made me strong."

But she fought, that's the difference. She was a scrappy little bitch from the first moment I met her. Mark wasn't. "I'm telling you this so you know, man," I told him.

"I can't help it…" he whispered.

"Yeah, you can. You gotta. I'll do whatever it takes, Mark, but just… I don't want you thinking you're crazy. You're not crazy, okay? You're just really stressed out."

"Okay," Mark agreed meekly, and that was when I realized: Mark needed Roger. Mark needed this protector who would stand by him through everything. I always thought, watching them, that it was wrong of Roger to dominate Mark as he did. But he didn't. Roger never told Mark what to do. He didn't dominate, he protected. He dominated others, but never Mark.

I resolved in that moment to apologize. Despite believing, still, that Roger was abused by his father, I knew I had hurt him. And part of me wanted to help Mark by keeping Roger angry. If Roger stayed away, Mark might grow a backbone. Then again, maybe he wouldn't. Mark was young and his quiet strength a fragile thing, far too fragile to live by. It's a funny thing, he let himself get pushed around all the time, yet the one time I had seen him fight he fought against me. It had happened shortly after Roger began avoiding us:

_"What happened?" Mark asked me. "Maybe I can talk to him…"_

_"I wanted to know where he gets those bruises. Even someone who starts as many fights as him--"_

_"Don't call him a bully."_

_"I didn't."_

_"You implied it."_

_"I didn't--"_

_"You did!"_

_"Okay, Roger isn't a bully."_

_"Okay. Thank you. You were saying?"_

Mark could be strong when he needed to. He just didn't care enough about himself to be strong for that reason.

Maybe, I thought, that's why Mark made films. Maybe he needed to record the injustices of the world, for the days when someone would see them and care.

We had an amazing day, mostly by ourselves: cloudspotting in Sheep's Meadow, pulling faces as we ate kosher hot dogs in Central Park. The cultural event was a musical, an off-Broadway workshop, and although it had no prestigious name, Mark and I both thought it was brilliant. We sang ourselves giddy on the train ride home.

It was a great birthday.

Happy sixteenth, Thomas Collins. (My mother used my full name for anything serious, whether happy or displeased.) Make a wish.

_College._

TO BE CONTINUED

Okay, you know the drill. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, would love to hear from you (about what you liked, didn't, if, why, what you want to happen next, whatever) but I'm not going to threaten not to update if you don't review. I'll probably update soon, assumingI do well on my music lessons!Ihope you all are enjoying my story!


	11. Roger: A Taste of Power

Disclaimer: Jonathan Larson owns; I'm just borrowing the characters to express my teenage angst.

ROGER

I don't remember the dream, only the transition. One minute I was warm, wet but warm and very comfortable, like a bath, except that this was a 'personification' type of dream that left my shorts soaked. In the next moment I'm cold, uncomfortable, and tired.

"Roger! Roger!"

Sarah's distressed whine can cut through any dream. I moan, open my eyes and rub my face. "What?" I ask. It's either very late or very early, either rate an obscene hour at which to wake. "Huh…" My brain rediscovers my body; as it does, I become aware of a strange smell and cold wetness to my pajamas. This is more than a wet dream.

I know before Sarah admits, "I had an accident. I'm sorry." She's kneeling on the bed, still wearing her soaked nightgown.

Sarah sleeps in my bed. Some nights she falls asleep there. If my parents are home, she falls asleep in her own bed, wakes up a few hours later and runs into my room. They don't want me to baby her. Fuck that. Fuck them. She's a little girl, a terrified child who believes that when the lights go off she can see demons. _She'll stop with that once we stop indulging it,_ Dad said, and he confiscated her nightlight. The man has no idea how to raise a child. I think I'm fair evidence to that.

I force myself to sit up. "Unh…"

"Roger, I'm sorry."

"That's okay. Come on." I usher her off the bed, then strip the sheets. "Go get cleaned up in the bathroom," I tell her. "You have other pajamas, right?" She nods. "Good. Clean up and change. Go on." She flees. I bundle up the sheets and sniff the mattress, then the quilt. By some miracle, the quilt is dry and when I strip the mattress pad, the mattress is dry, also.

The house is dim; I stub my toe repeatedly. From my parents' bedroom comes the sound of my father snoring. The luminous hands of the clock label this six a.m.; Mom's already gone to work. She seems to constantly have a different shift. And six isn't too late. We'll leave for school in two hours.

I push everything into the washer. When Sarah joins me with her soaked nightgown and underpants, I consider. Dad's still not happy about Sarah sleeping in my bed. If he finds out about her 'accident', he'll blow a fuse. She's seven. If that's too old for nightlights, it's too old for accidents.

"Do you like these pajamas?" I ask. Sarah shakes her head. "Good. Run and get me a trash bag from the kitchen, under the sink. _Don't touch anything else_, just bring the bag." She obeys, and I shove her clothes into the bag.

"What're you doing?" she asks.

"Sarah, listen. You didn't have an accident. You weren't in my bed last night. You understand?"

"Okay," she says.

"Good girl. Do you think you can go back to sleep now?" When she gives her head a solemn shake, I say, "Okay. I want you to wait for me in my room. I have to do a couple things."

In the bathroom, I scrub my legs where they're sticky from being peed on, then pull on my sweatpants. I toss my soiled clothes into the washer and start the cycle. If my parents notice at all, hopefully the smell will be gone. _Gee, sorry, Dad, I just woke up and I was humping the bed, couldn't help myself…_ He probably won't speak to me for a week, which is okay by me.

I cram the bag with Sarah's nightgown into my backpack. It's going into the school Dumpster today.

She's sitting on my bed, her knees hugged close to her chest, shivering. Naturally my sister has not the sense to wear something flannel, or at least warm on this rainy morning midway through November. "Sarah…"

She raises her face, and I can see she's been crying. "I'm sorry!" she says. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

"I'm not mad," I promise. The things with kids like us, kids who are raised as Sarah and I are--completely without love--is that we get to be needy. We want to be touched. We want people to love us and never believe that they do.

I hug her tightly in the hope that one day she won't be like me.

When Sarah has stopped crying, I say, "You know what? There's no point in going back to bed now. Let's have something to eat, okay? Will you read to me?" She nods. "Yeah. Okay, then let's go."

I situate her on the counter and she reads aloud from _The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_. Overall it's not an awful morning. I transfer the laundry to the dryer before Dad wakes up, and Sarah and I eat chocolate-chip pancakes and bacon for breakfast. "Okay." I check the clock; how did it get to be seven-thirty? We need to leave soon. "Go upstairs and get dressed for school." Sarah hops off her chair and I hear her feet on the stairs, then in her room. I tackle the dishes.

In fifteen minutes she's back, holding a hairbrush and ribbons. "Braid my hair?" she asks.

"Okay." I lift her onto a chair. "Hold still." School uniforms are ridiculous; my sister is blessed enough to look cute in her pleated skirt and button-down blouse. Despite the cuteness, I maintain that no seven-year-old should wear a tie, regardless of gender. I can remember plenty of days in which I stormed into the house and ripped the thing clean off my neck, sometimes ripping the tie in the process. Inevitably I would stuff these torn ties in the back of my closet or the trash, and inevitably they were discovered and used for spankings. I hate ties.

Braiding is simpler than most boys think. Once my sister's hair is tied off, she leaps off the chair at just the moment Dad wanders in. "That's dangerous," he warns. "You could fall and break your neck."

"Sorry," Sarah says.

"We were just heading out," I say. "Sarah, grab your bag." My backpack is by the door, slumped like an unconscious drunk; I swing it onto my shoulder and dash out the door. If I'm lucky, Dad won't notice the stuff in the dryer and I'll be able to make my bed when I get home from school.

---

Sixth period, Trask's class and what appears to be all of the Junior boys are gathered in the auditorium for an assembly. Trask is standing by the door with his arms crossed, not looking at all pleased.

Mark and Collins sit together about five rows behind me; I can hear them talking in the pre-presentation freedom. My head feels tight. I miss Mark. It isn't fair: he was my friend first. This is my fault. I avoided him. If I had only had a few moments alone with him, a chance to explain what had happened, we could have stayed friends. But he was always with Collins, so now whenever I look at him he looks away. I've never been so miserable.

The man giving the presentation is dressed in a crisp military uniform and shiny black dress shoes that make audible taps as he walks. He's got a buzz cut and mean eyes, but he stands before us, smiles, and asks, "Hey, how are you guys today?" A few kids answer, saying that they're fine, and someone in the back asks how he's doing. There is scattered laughter. "Yeah. So, junior year, huh? You're all juniors, right?" Again, scattered affirmative responses. "One more year, huh? How many of you are going to college?" I can't discern any words, but the gist is positive. "You know how much a college education is costing these days?"

That's a pathetic approach. He's going to try to guilt us into joining the army. I know the man's only doing his job, but I have such resentment for the body he represents that as he's presenting a series of numbers and telling these kids how the military will pay their way, I raise my hand.

"Yes?"

"Hi. I'm Roger Davis, I'm a junior and, uh, I know it won't be easy for my parents to pay for college," I say, bullshitting more than a little. My parents can easily afford to send me to college. "So I've been thinking about the military," I conclude. The recruiter nods and gives a little smile. "But… what's the percentage of people who actually leave and go back to school?"

"Well, I'm not equipped with the numbers," the recruiter responds smoothly, "though it is true that some find the military a difficult place to leave."

I nod. He answered that well. I have a little respect for this man. I'm still going to crush him. "And, there are stories of 'gay-bashing' within the army or dishonorable discharges for homosexuality. Are this true accounts?"

"The army doesn't condone that type of violence," the recruiter says, and my respect is gone. He sounds like the priest in my church. "And if a man chooses to flaunt that attribute, the army is not responsible for the retribution he earns."

"So, let me get this straight: a guy can be beaten literally to death--killed--by his peers, by his own side, just for the way he was born?" There's a turn in the crowd, disapproving murmurs. Good.

"Well…" He's at a loss.

I ask, enunciating clearly, "Yes or no?"

"That army cannot be held responsible," he says certainly.

"Oh. You won't protect your soldiers?" I demand. "Why would we sign up to fight and die, to be shot at if you won't offer us protection?" I allow a little quiet time for this to sink in. Then I tell him, "I don't think you have any more purpose here. Leave. Out!" He starts. "Out," I say, and clap. "Out." Clap. "Out," clap.

I'm not the only one saying it, either. "Out," they say, and clap. "Out." The recruiter begins to sweat.

"Out."

He looks around, slightly feverish. I love this, this power, how they all listened to me.

"Out. Out. Out."

I've started something: a ripple, a riot. Anger flares, and a wad of paper flies from the audience to bounce off the recruiter's chest.

"Out. Out. Out."

We break into a raucous cheer as he heads for the door, clapping and whooping, feeling a swell of power, me more than anyone else. I started this.

That's why Trask leans over and says, "Mimi--" as he has taken to calling me "--would you go wait outside, please?"

My work is done and I like Trask, so I step out back and lean against the wall of the auditorium, grinning. I can't believe I did that. I cannot believe I moved a group of over one hundred people, made them agree with me and bend to my will. It's a rush. I think I want to be a lawyer.

When the door opens I straighten, expecting Trask and a lecture, but it's Collins who emerges. Mark slips out after him. Collins doesn't say a word, just looks at me and holds his hands out from his sides. A part of me wants to say, _Fuck, yeah_, but I don't, I just go up next to him and wrap my arms around him, and he does the same.

I don't ask for hugs, but I always want them. It seems like for years only Mark and Sarah have touched me with any love, and though I love them both, Collins has the best hug ever. It helps that he's bigger than me, but his hug is gentle and warm and overall very nice.

Collins and I break the hug, and I grab Mark and hug him, and he just squeaks, "Roger!" And like that, we're friends again.

Collins claps me on the shoulder. "You're a real powerful guy, Roger," he tells me.

"I know," I say. I am not the king of modesty at this moment, nor do I need or desire to be. "I started a riot," I say, amazed, and giggle.

"You did," Collins agrees, grinning. I'm so proud of myself.

Trask emerges, takes one look at us and says, "Oh, I'm glad. The Wonder Twins… Triplets, I guess. They're back together. Good. Bring that energy to the stage." We all blush, Mark more than the rest of us. "Okay, Collins and Cohen, inside. Don't worry, I'm not gonna skin him or anything," Trask assures them, interpreting my friends' faces.

When it's just us two, he says, "Davis…" and shakes his head. He's laughing. "You're… oh, G-d. That was impressive. But it's dangerous. You should know that, starting protests like that, it's a dangerous game and you're lucky there was no violence." I give a solemn nod. Satisfied, Trask says, "And I'm really proud. Come back inside."

As I step in, Collins shouts, "Anarchy!" and a cheer is raised. And I feel great. It's the best I've felt, probably ever. This has become a great day.

---

I'm sitting at the kitchen table finishing an essay when Marcy storms in, protesting, "And _I_ told you that I can't! I have a date, Mom! _G-d._"

Mom follows her, looking tired. She's worked all day, and now has come home to her hormonal, eternally dissatisfied bitch of an eldest daughter, who retrieves a can of soda from the refrigerator and spots me. "Make Roger do it," she says. "He's sixteen, he can drive."

"Do what?" I ask.

"Pick up Grandma Davis from the airport," Mom says.

I wince. A moment ago I was ready to do anything she asks, but this… Grandma Davis, my father's mother, has about all the kindness and maternal instinct of a barbed wire fence experiencing pre-menstrual syndrome. She dropped cigarette ash on my father, as a baby, as she nursed him. "When?" I ask.

"A week from Thursday."

I nod. "Okay, I can do that," I say. Mom thanks me with obvious relief. "Someone needs to watch Sarah, though."

"I have an early shift," Mom says. "I'll watch her." There is irony here, that the mother is secondary guardian, but I accept it without laughter. Mom's sad enough already.

Now, I think, is a good time to ask, "Can I sleep over at Mark's a week from tomorrow?"

TO BE CONTINUED!


	12. Mark: Goes Away

Disclaimer: Jonathan Larson owns; I'm just borrowing the characters to express my teenage angst.

MARK

"Jesus, Roger, you okay?"

I was staring at the beginnings of a black eye as Roger hunched over the desk in history. Sometimes he looked small and frightened, but usually he looked a little too big for the desks. "Yeah," he muttered. "I would've done the other guy worse but Thomas is a pacifist this week," he sneered.

"I am not a pacifist. It wasn't worth it," Collins said.

"We have a new nickname," Roger informed me acidly. "We're the 'faggy boys'."

"After your protest," Collins retorted, "I'm not surprised."

"I'm not a fag. Even if I was gay I wouldn't be a fag," Roger snapped.

Jones stopped the conversation quickly, telling us to get to work on our essays, and we did. I was thinking about Roger's comment, though. 'Fag' just means 'homosexual'. It's a really crude word, but that's what it means. So how can a person be gay without being a fag? Did Roger not know what it meant? I shook my head. There was no point in wondering, and I had work to do.

In the middle of history class, a note landed on my desk. It made a soft, shushing sound as it skidded, then settled near my elbow. I looked around. Collins and Roger were both working. That's odd. I opened the note and read:

_Mark, you ok? Roger._

I sighed. No, I was not okay. I glanced at Mrs. Jones; she was busy grading our quizzes from earlier. _No. My dad yelled at me today. I feel like shit._ I tossed the note back at Roger--not to him, at him. I needed to lash out at someone. Roger always lashes out. I'm jealous. Just once, I'd like him to be the mature one and handle the situation by himself, without dragging me into it.

Which is unfair. Roger does not have the most stable home situation. I have two loving parents and my sister, who does not need to be looked after. Roger doesn't have that.

_Mark, sorry. Why's he shouting you out? You're Good Boy Extraordinaire. Roger._

_Mom was looking through my stuff and she found the last note. You know, the one about… you know._ Roger passed me a note a few weeks ago and, after a while, we got to talking about masturbation. It was in English class. It wasn't too inappropriate a conversation, but there were a few details about the foreskin and its involvement. I couldn't help myself, I was curious.

_Psh. So what? You're not supposed to touch yourself?_

I turned around and sneered at him. "Don't be a prick." I wrote nothing back, but moments later a paper landed on my desk, another note from Roger. I unfolded it and read, _Mark, I'm sorry. He shouldn't shout at you. You're a good person. Roger._

Despite myself, I smiled. In response I told Roger, _It's been constant lately. Like every day, he wants to see my homework and my math tests. And it's like if I have a B, it's not good enough. Mark_

_Mark, The fuck! You're doing really well in math. Look, it may not be any better but you can always come to my house. I mean, Grandma Davis is there right now and she's crazy, but you're still always welcome. Roger_

_Roger, Thanks. I may take you up on that, come over for a "study session." Mark_

_Mark, You _are_ using that as a euphemism, right? Roger_

_Roger, Duh! Why do you think I put it in quotation marks? Mark (haha)_

Roger folded the next note into a little airplane that hit my shoulder and bounced on the ground. "Dammit!" Jones glared at us and Roger clapped a hand over his mouth. _Dear quotation Mark, clever! Very glad. Look, I made a paper airplane._ He had also drawn a cartoon of a tree.

_Your airplane sucks._

_Fuck you. You can't climb my tree. Look, it has a fort._ Roger's "fort" was a square with a triangle on top inked into the foliage of his cartoon tree.

_Is that what that is? I thought it was a birdhouse._

_Fuck you! Get out of my fort._

_I was never in your fort. Your fort sucks, anyway. _I drew a picture of a castle under the words.It was a basic fortress, four walls and four towers, one at each corner. For good measure, I added in a large beak eating Roger's treefort. The bell rang a moment after I returned the note.

"What the fuck is that?" he asked me.

"That is my dragon," I replied. "He's eating your tiny fort."

Roger pouted. "My fort is not tiny. It's done in miniature."

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, it's to scale with your penis?"

At that Collins showed the first sign of interest in our conversation, staring at me as though he could not believe I had just said that. "Shut _up_ about my penis," Roger snapped. "My penis… that's the tree. And yours is the fort.

Collins rolled his eyes. "Guys, we're gonna be late to English."

That day after school, I dropped my bag to the ground and rolled my shoulders. Roger can crack his. He dislocated the left one once, just popped it right out. It hurt; he grabbed it and whispered "Ow!" before smacking it back in with a sharp scraping sound of bone rubbing against bone. Remembering this, I shook my head.

Roger grabbed my shoulders. I yelped: he had pressed his thumbs hard against my back. "You want me to stop?" he asked.

"No, that's good."

Roger continued massaging my shoulders, easing the pain of a heavy backpack. When Collins joined us, he rolled his eyes. "Could you be any more of a flirt?" he asked.

"He likes it," Roger protested. "Mark's shoulders hurt."

"They do," I added, as though Collins had accused Roger and I needed to defend him.

Collins only laughed. "I'll bet."

I didn't care. My shoulders did hurt; I had started bringing my history book to school each day to work, and the added weight strained my pathetic muscles. As Roger's hands eased the tension and pain, I let my head droop, thinking of his mother and how sad she always looked. Roger knew what he was doing. I suspected a reason, but… why ask? Why put that pressure on him? I had just regained Roger, and I was not about to lose him again simply to know why he made me feel so good.

We jumped apart when my sister came in. She probably would have told my parents, but G-d only knows how she would have maligned the truth. Dad would kill me. Of course, in Cindy's version of the story we would probably be topless and I would be touching myself.

"Um." I straightened my glasses. "These… um… these are my friends. This is Roger--you know Roger--and Tom Collins." I pointed. "Collins, this is Cindy. My sister."

"Hi." Collins laughs the hardest, swears the most and makes the dirtiest jokes of the three of us. When he wants to, though, he can be as prim and proper as you please, nice posture, soft spoken, offering his hand to my sister as she gives him a strange look.

At last she managed to say, "You… you lent that book to Mark, didn't you?"

Collins considered for a moment. "It's possible. Which book?"

"_I Never Promised You a Rose Garden_," she said. "I borrowed it from him--"

I interrupted, "You what? You can't do that, you can't just go through my stuff and take things!" I never minded before, if only because arguing against Cindy's invasions was a futile effort, because _you know your sister would ask if you were around, and she always returns your belongings in fine condition._ Now I have something I don't want her to see. If she began leafing through my notebooks, the things she might find could condemn me.

My play is nearly finished. I added in a scene in which Sadie and Matt set the table together and they are both so upset that they start to shout at each other, just having this intense screamfest in which they tear each other and the world to shreds and that's the finale. That's the last scene. When the curtain rises they are standing together, holding hands, center stage, broiling sweat, their chests heaving from exertion and they grin, make eye contact and laugh as they bow to a standing ovation…

Obviously I can't write all of that. I did write the screamfest, though. It's a good scene. But in the scene, it's pretty obvious that I think homosexuality is okay. And then at the back of that notebook is the drawing. My dad would just flay me.

"Look, I know I shouldn't've had it, but I read it and… my G-d. It's just so totally beautiful and honest."

"Well, it's based on reality," Collins said. I was impressed. My sister had essentially hijacked him, and he was more than humoring her. He was giving an actual conversation. I wouldn't have done that. Then, Cindy had not thought to bring the book up with me. I felt my head sink slightly at the thought: why would she not talk to me about it? Admittedly I had not known the things Collins was saying now, but she might at least have asked me.

As Cindy babbled on, I realized I was jealous. I didn't want it to mean anything to her. She couldn't possibly understand. It had been a special book, a book for me, that spoke to _me_. It was my illness, my warning, my guide.

My stomach began to twist. Cindy had no right. My ears filled with wind. How could she--

A warm touch brought me crashing back to reality. "Mark? Come on, honey," my mother encouraged. I looked around. Where were Roger and Collins? What…

It was nighttime. I was in the living room with my parents and Cindy. Outside, rain lashed the windows. Yet… yet just a moment ago Roger and Collins were over. Roger was holding my hand. I know, I know we went outside and stretched out on the grass and watched the stars. I know we stayed until our skin was cold to touch and Collins tripped in the darkness. I know we sat in my room in our pajamas drinking cocoa and giggling like mad. Why do people think boys don't giggle? We giggle. We told jokes and laughed at each other. And I know for a fact that I made Roger sing and that after a while he stood and looked at my notebook and that when he asked if he could read it, I promised he would be the first to know when I finished my play.

But now I was in the living room. Everyone was watching me. Glancing at the window, I caught a glimpse of my reflection: I was pale, eyes wide, looking terrified and wearing my blue yarmulke. There was one candle in the menorah. "Go on, Mark," Dad prompted.

I lit a match, lit the shamash and exhaled the prayer, words blurring: "Barukh atah adonai eloheinu melekh ha'alohm asher kitshanu b'mitzvatah v'itsivanu lchadnigh ner shel Chanukah." And I was panting, unable to catch my breath as I wriggled the shamash into its holder. My parents seemed oblivious, just lauded my Hebrew recitation.

"Thought about that confirmation?" Dad asked, guiding me with one hand on my back.

We were headed for the kitchen. My head spun. I needed to sit down. I needed to lie down. My tongue and mouth had gone dry, my throat constrict. I fell into a chair at the table.

"Well, Mark?" Dad asked, insistent.

"What?"

"Have you given thought to your confirmation?" he asked.

"I…" My eyes lit on the covered dish on the table. "I haven't thought on anything but Mom's latkes," I stammered, and at least earned my mother's approval.

As always, they were great, that's no lie. I hardly tasted them. I was too worried about the episode. It had been a long time since the last one. I thought having Roger back had made this stop, but here it was again, still happening. I was losing my mind.

Great. Just what I _fucking_ need. I have APs in five months, my SAT in three, and to add to that, I'm crazy.

TO BE CONTINUED

A menorah is a candelabra used during Chanukah. The shamash candle is lit from a match, then used to light the other candles. The Hebrew Mark recites is a transliteration. I've only ever seen it in Hebrew so, please judge gently. Latkes are potato pancakes.


	13. Roger: I Risk Everything

Disclaimer: Jonathan Larson owns; I'm just borrowing the characters to express my teenage angst. 'Desperado' belongs to The Eagles. Adam Pascal's voice belongs to Adam Pascal (as far as I know) but it's still pretty.

I do hope no one is offended by the Nazism, liberalism, anti-republicanism, attitude towards Catholicismor profanity contained herein. Grandma Davis's views do not reflect my own.

ROGER

My entire family comes home for Christmas.

It begins with Grandma Davis, who I retrieve from the airport. Grandma Davis is crazy. Sometimes she forgets and thinks she's still in the Reich. On the way home from the airport, she fiddles with the radio dial. "All this music, nothing on our troops," she complains. "Nothing about the fuhrer."

I might want to laugh, if this was the first time. Unfortunately, Grandma Davis was not one of those forced into the Hitler Youth. Admittedly this is a poor example as she was too old for the Hitler Youth; the point is, Grandma Davis lived in Germany during World War Two. So did Dad. Grandma sometimes talks about what Dad was like and what he did for the Hitler Youth, which she made him join but he was pleased to do.

"I didn't understand," he told me once. It was the only time he talked about it. I was ten years old, and we were camping. Dad invited me to take a hike with him early in the morning, before everyone else woke up. He just came into the tent, shook me awake, told me to get dressed. And we went. And we were just watching the valley and the way the trees changed and the rock sparked with color when the sun kissed them for the first time, like the whole world starting just for us. And Dad said, "I didn't understand. I wasn't much older than you."

I only later figured out what he meant. After that we went back to the site and he treated me exactly as he had before, as though nothing had happened, but we both knew it had.

Mark used to talk about his grandfather's stories about concentration camps. I never tell him about Grandma Davis or my father. He knows that she is a Nazi, but no details. I'm afraid of what would happen if I told him.

Mark's gotten scary. He's like a dandelion. I picked those, when I was a kid. I closed my eyes and imagined, hard, what I wanted more than anything in the world, the pursed my lips and blew with all my scrawny, six-year-old might. Mark reminds me of a dandelion. If he's pushed too hard, even the tiniest thing can send him scattered in the wind.

He won't talk to me about it. He talks to Collins. I should be happy. At least Mark is talking at all. At least he has someone. But I'm not happy. I'm jealous. I'm angry. Mark and me, we're best friends. That's how it is and how's it's supposed to be. Mark is the one watching me as I play my new song, eyes closed so I don't see him and blush. And I am the one to read his plays and stories. I am the one to tell him, again and again, that I love them.

I think about this as I drive Grandma Davis home. "Grandma, we're in New York," I remind her. "It's 1982. Reagan is in power, not Hitler. Though Reagan is hardly an improvement," I grumble.

I don't think Reagan is as bad as Hitler. That was hyperbole. But I am afraid of the power the Republicans have after Carter. I liked Carter. I liked his policies and environmentalism. But his extremism has _completely_ isolated the right branch. Now for the Democrats to regain power, they'll have to go right. No one respects the left. I do not blame Carter for this. He was a good guy and knew what he was about. It's the American people that upset me.

That and Ronald Reagan. "Ketchup is a vegetable" my ass! And now the man _denies_ Communist witch hunts. Sure. And Arthur fuckin' Miller was just writing about history. And who was the head of the Screen Actors' Guild? Who handed innocent men and women over for vague liberalism? RONALD REAGAN, that's who.

The car jolts forward when Grandma Davis smacks the back of my head. "Ow! Grandma, I'm driving!"

"If you could call it that."

I chuckle. For all she's a crazy Nazi bitch, I love my grandma.

I have four siblings who don't live at home. The first to arrive is Theresa. She's only six years older than I am. She dresses like she's on trial: blouses, jackets with matching skirts, nylons. I love nylons. Know why they're called nylons? It's because they were discovered in New York and London at the same time. NY-Lon. I just love that. Tons of people wear nylons, and they're a great example of sharing.

Theresa has painted nails and lipstick that smells stale. She doesn't hug me, she kisses my cheek and says, "Hello, Roger," as though speaking to a four-year-old. She does the same to Sarah, who immediately scrubs at the smears on her cheek. I laugh into my hand.

This year, she brings a boyfriend called Oliver. He's big, muscly. It's the first time I see someone and think of the term 'barrel-chested.' He has wiry off-orange hair and big hands. He seems like something from another time and place. He belongs in Homer, not Scarsdale. When he walks in, I quiver. This is one terrifying son of a bitch. Immediately sensing a challenge, I force myself to stand up straight and make my face a stone.

"So you're Roger?" he asks. His accent throws me: a thick Scots burr. "I've heard about yah." He takes my hand and pumps it. "Musician, eh?"

"That's right," I tell him. I'm impressed! My voice sounds fairly cool, despite the fact that my balls are trying to self-castrate.

"Aye, so yer sister says." The man talks like a pirate! "Guitar, aye?" I nod. "You'll play for us?" And before I know what I'm doing, I nod. "Well, I'll look forward to that! Great to meet'cha, Roger." He slaps my shoulder and I have to fight not to stumble.

I think I like him.

Next is Anne, who pulls up in a beaten Ford and has a hug for everyone. Anne's great. She laughs at everything. At times I wonder if she belongs in this family. She's boisterous, loud, the life of the party. She doesn't know how loudly she speaks. Nine years my senior, she has a bachelor's degree in English and an emergency teaching credential. She's been teaching for a couple of years now, and she loves it. Which is nice, because she needed the money.

Life is so much easier once Anne arrives. She sucks up the air in the room, allowing me to slip away. I go upstairs for a while, because I need to have a talk with Sarah.

"Are you all right?" I ask. She's standing in the bathroom, carefully squeezing toothpaste onto her toothbrush. She nods; I go in and sit on the rim of the bathtub. "Are you sleeping okay?"

Ever since Grandma Davis arrived, Sarah has had no choice but to sleep in her own bed. Grandma is in her room, also, which to my parents is a reason for Sarah _not_ to need to run to me. Dad is fully oblivious to his mother's insanity. I don't understand. She hardly acts like a mother. When she heard me singing Sarah a lullaby, she ordered me to stop, saying that my useless fluff and lies were making her weak and useless to the fuhrer.

But that's the great thing about family, no matter how difficult they are to endure, no matter how much shit they give and what they do to you, you forgive them. They're your family.

"Hello? Is anyone _here_?"

"Frankie!"

I take the stairs two and three at a time to crash into my sister. "Hey, Roger!" I have my arms around her; she squeezes me with one arm, the other holding a duffel bag I bet is full of dirty laundry. When the hug ends, I'm under her arm. "How are you?" she asks. "Still raising hell?"

"Frankie, I started a riot!" I report, proud of myself. "In the school auditorium. They forced out a recruiter, it was _so_ great."

She beams. "We need more like you," she says, "with the big R in the White House."

I love Frankie so much. She is twenty-three, in college, has frizzy, uncontrollable hair and wears purple braces. She does not exactly look like a Davis. She looks like Mom, and she's the only one. Frankie is openly liberal and doesn't care what _anybody_ thinks.

Most boys look up to their brothers. Well, most boys' brothers are not Peter Davis.

"Roger," he says, and that's the entire greeting, my name and a nod and a solemn handshake.

"Peter Rabbit," I reply in the same even, solemn tone, my face drawn to sorrow. Behind me, Sarah and Frankie crack up. I give Peter a disrespectful and, I'm told, cheeky wink. No matter what, the picture of Peter in his elementary school play are far more embarrassing than the pictures of me in my gi.

Peter is, in a word, old. He's thirty-two, the oldest Davis, and a real pain in the ass. He thinks he knows just e-e-everything and what's best for everyone. I hate him. I mean he's barely out of school! To be completely fair, he _is_ out of school but only of a couple years ago, and now he's a shrink. I hate shrinks. I'll always hate shrinks. I mean, Ariata's okay but she's isn't a _shrink_ shrink, she's a counselor. She counsels. Pete's a shrink.

His wife is all right. Her name is Olivia; she's pretty and she's slim, or she used to be. Now she's pregnant, her baby bulging against a white blouse. She hugs me and kisses me and touches my hair. It's not romantic. It's motherly, like she wants to practice. I don't like Olivia as a person, only because she's so difficult to get to know. She's so busy trying to be perfect.

I don't have wet dreams about many people. Usually, I don't have them about people at all, just feelings and colors, motion and sound. But the first night Olivia and Peter are staying with us, I have one of the most intense dreams I have ever had.

I wake up grinning, insanely happy. Then I realize that I'm lying on the top bunk and my brother and his wife are squeezed into the bunk below me, probably listening to me moan my way through one hell of an orgasm. And I have my hand down my pants. _Fuck._ Wait, that's not really an appropriate obscenity. _Dammit!_ Or maybe _Damn me._ I am from a Catholic family, after all.

Slowly, I ease myself off the bunk. The room is empty; I breathe a sigh of relief. Maybe no one heard. Maybe I had the dream in the morning, after Peter and Olivia had gone.

There's no one in the bathroom. This is getting a bit creepy. With eleven people in the house, there is always a wait for the bathroom. But I'm not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. I just go in, pee, and scrub my hands thoroughly. It's not touching myself that bothers me, it's walking around with cum-crust on my fingers. That's disgusting.

It's nice having all this time to do bathroom stuff. I comb the knots out of my hair, wash my face, brush my teeth for the entire two minutes. At the end of this, I feel great. Very much ready for Christmas, which is today.

_Shit! Christmas!_

Christmas _mass_. That's where everyone is! Why didn't they wake me?

I dash for the stairs, then realize that being late to Christmas mass and arriving in dirty sweats is not as bad as being later to mass and arriving properly dressed. I dash back to the room.

Pete is waiting for me. I don't even see him. The moment I have the door closed, he grabs me. "You disgusting little sinner," he hisses, and shoves me onto the bed. My head hits the wall; I raise my fingers to probe the sore spot. He grabs the desk chair and sits facing me. "Well?" he demands. "Don't you have anything to say for yourself?"

"A... bout what?" I ask. I know what, but I'm not going to say it. I'm going to make him say it.

"About what you did last night," he says. "In bed!"

"Sleeping?" I ask, all innocence.

Pete sighs through clenched teeth. "Roger, you were sinning," he says. "You're gonna go to hell."

I snort. "May as well do it some more, then," I figure.

"Roger!" Pete looks like he wants to strangle me. I immediately pity his unborn child. "What you were doing is dirty and disgusting and even if you were asleep and couldn't help yourself, it is still a sin! A big one. And every time you do it, you don't just soil yourself in the eyes of the L-rd." _I don't what?_ I want to laugh. Pete's a real fuck, but he's funny as hell. "You're a murderer, Roger. You're killing all those babies."

I can't help it: I burst out laughing. "My sperm?" I spit. "You're calling my sperm _babies_?" It's kind of terrifying to think of my penis in those terms. I imagine all my sperm turning into babies, tiny things like blisters down there until the pressure's too much and my dick explodes in a mess of bloodand unborn children. The image makes me laugh harder.

I swear I have never dropped acid.

Peter slaps the chair. "Stop laughing!" he commands. I can't. "Don't you understand that I'm worried for you? You're just a child, you don't know what you want. I'm trying to look out for you. I'm trying to protect you, Roger, because you're my brother. I love you."

No one says that in my family unless either they want something or they're speaking in religious terms. Peter is both right now. I don't know why I do this, because I don't like my brother and I certainly don't agree with him, but I sober up and pretend I'm sorry. I let Peter take me to church and promise to confess next week.

Peter's happy. I just think about Christmas dinner.

---

Christmas dinner is always fun. Oh, presents are well and good. I'm actually quite touched that Peter, who has never shown an interest in my music and even encouraged me to study business and sell the guitar, has given me songbooks. Olivia is pleased with the baby blanket. Her face gets that soft look, like she's going to cry.

The only people not pleased are Dad and Grandma Davis, who say that knitting is for girls and sports are for boys. I don't care. It's not a girlie blanket or anything, just white and blue checks. And anyway I did sports for ages. There's photographs to prove it: me in soccer shorts, baseball uniform, track shorts (I shudder at the thought), basketball jersey, gi. If I want to knit, it's my fucking choice.

But Christmas dinner, that's incredible. We all squeeze around the table and there's more food than anyone could hope to eat. I did not have to cook; usually, dinner means me and Sarah scarfing down something I threw together. Tonight, it's the entire family. It's sitting down, using cutlery and napkins, please and thank you and more deliciousness than I thought physically possible.

Sarah tugs my sleeve and holds out a Christmas cracker. I clasp onto one end and tug, wrenching the kid out of her chair. Everyone laughs, including Sarah. "Okay, Sair, hold on tight this time," I say. She clings to the chair with one hand and the cracker with the other, and we pop the thing open with a mighty BANG! Inside is a little plastic pig, a yellow paper crown which I settle on Sarah's head, and a silly joke about vampires and dentists.

My cracker contains a green crown. Sarah insists that I wear it; since everyone is wearing a paper crown, I don't feel too silly. There is also a little cloth sunflower and a joke about Napoleon.

Anne, at the end of the table, is speaking with Olivia about her child and the school system. "Lucky, you are," Anne tells her. "The baby boomers, Peter's right at the peak, isn't he, and I mean if he hadn't started this young your kids could seriously stand to face a population boom, make it very difficult to get into a good college--"

"Or," Frankie cuts in, "social security. We're not being careful. Surplus money must go to social security or it will run out. Inflation--"

"Aye, there's the key," agrees Oliver. "If ye're not checkin' inflation, all ye've got is, well, nowt. Ye're money's gettin' useless. And the population, perhaps that's why we're seeing this new thing, this immuno-deficiency syndrome--"

"The AIDS virus," Pete interrupts, "is a punishment from G-d. Why else would it only strike faggots and junkies?"

"Don't say 'faggot'," I tell him. "People who are gay are just _gay_. It's not, like, wrong." I'm not gay, but I'm fairly certain my friends are. I haven't asked. I know they think homosexuality is okay, because of the riot.

"It is wrong, Roger," he tells me right back. "It's wrong because G-d says it's wrong."

I roll my eyes. "The _Bible_ says--"

My mother interrupts me, frantic, "Roger, honey, eat something. You're getting too skinny."

I'm actually not. I think I've gained weight. But she's worried, so I stuff my mouth. "His problem," Grandma Davis says, "is liberalism! All of you damn liberals, softness, that's not getting you anywhere! Jimmy Carter is the reason--"

"Jimmy Carter is a great man--"

Pete clears his throat. "Excuse me," he says. "I-- Olivia and I-- have an announcement we'd like to make. With the baby coming soon and, well, just the fact that we'll be a family, we have decided to move back home. To Scarsdale." There is a smattering of applause and congratulations. I'm not happy about this, so I just eat.

And then, after dinner and compliments to my mother and toasts to Peter comes my absolute favorite part of Christmas. Now, I'm a little dizzy since my mother gave me three glasses of champagne during the toasts. We celebrate at Christmas, everything. And now, now it my favorite part, an unscheduled moment that inevitably occurs, when someone turns to me, in this case it's Oliver, and says, "When are you going to sing for us, Roger?"

Everyone choruses agreement and encouragement. "Come on, Rog!" "Yes, sing!" So I stand up and take a deep breath.

And I think of Mark and Collins. It's funny that even when I'm with my family and happy, I think of my friends. I think of the secret written in the lines Collins' face, the one I can't quite read but I know he wants to tell. I think of how Mark looks down and the way his smile is so shy and hopeful. And I think of the things I ask of them, and what they give without being asked.

When I sing, I'm singing how I wish I could sing for them. It's a song that describes me in some ways, and them in the same. It's a song I sing with my eyes closed, whose hard-hit notes make my shoulders jump and my chest expand, and I'm not singing like I'm in a small room but raising my voice to fill a packed house.

I know that to Peter, "These things that are pleasin' you/Can hurt you somehow" is about my masturbation. He connects that, the thing I enjoy to my eternal damnation. To me it's the little lines I make on my arms and legs and hips. To me it's Mark when he sees and the way Collins seems to know, anyway. And how they don't understand that it doesn't hurt and that it's okay when it does.

"You ain't gettin' no younger/Your pain and your hunger, they're drivin' you home" reminds Anne of the reason she became a teacher. She thinks of her cold apartment and the manuscripts she sets aside to grade papers. She thinks of what she loves and what she has made herself love.

And the strangest thing, as I ask, "Don't your feet get cold in the winter time? Your sky won't snow and your sun won't shine," a lyric I have altered to personal preference, I open my eyes just slightly to look at my mother. The line makes me think of her and those pills she takes, quietly, every day. But she's just beaming. And next to her, dabbing his eyes, is my father.

I close my eyes and have to force out the next words, but they come strong. I finish with as much sad energy as I can muster, and open my eyes. My heart is racing. This is the first time I've ever felt judgment. Every year I sing a carol, or a hymn and my family claps and says they like. I've never sung rock for them. I've never sung country or anything I write. This is the moment in which I have risked everything. I have taken my moment, my constant shining moment as their golden boy and risked it for what I am.

They're silent. They're staring. I'm about to cry. What? I want to ask them. What? Don't you like it? Is it okay?

Peter says, "Oh, Roger." It's hardly above a whisper.

Grandma Davis sighs. "Well," she says, "he may be a liberal, but he's got talent."

"He's something," Anne says. "My brother…" And she's _proud_.

"Could he even do that last year?" asks Theresa. Mom shakes her head. More than one member of the family is crying.

"They said you were good," Oliver says, addressing me directly, "but nothing like that."

I bow my head. I want to cry, I'm so happy. They're talking about what to do with me, how to encourage this, how I should be caring for my voice, sneaking glances and stares to try to figure out who this boy is, this kid who has always been a brother but never been _their_ brother. Never been _my brother_ in anything but a name.

I know something else, then. I know that I'm going to sing for Collins, who asks in his casual, offhand way. I know I'm going to sing for Mark, who would never say but watches me and listens and promises he doesn't mind. I know that I'm not a very good friend or a very good person, but I have this. I have this. I have this.

TO BE CONTINUED!

To all readers,

Mark's episode last chapter did have a specific meaning. However, you all seem to have interpreted it as you please and I'm going to leave it at that and let the story mean different things to different people. If you want what I meant for it, drop me a line on IM or e-mail and I'll let you know.

Concerning the year: Yes, I am setting this in 1982. I had to pick a year, went about with figures and such-like, and made a decision. I have a plan for Collins and his college, etc. which I ask that you accept on willing suspension of disbelief.

Please and thank you,

lovefrom London.

P.S. Thank you all who leave reviews. I really love hearing from you.


	14. Collins: To Be Home

Disclaimer: Jonathan Larson is the Supreme Creator of 'RENT' and owner of its characters and suchwhat. All of it, his.

COLLINS

One day in mid-February, I stormed into the house, slammed the door and threw my bookbag at the floor. It clattered, spilling books and supplies. An English essay fluttered to rest in the corner; a ballpoint pen knocked against the stairs. My pulse could not steady itself; my breathing was shallow and furious. I ripped loose the laces on my soggy boots, giving my fingers red marks that would soon blister up angrily. I kicked off the shoes, giving a pleased sound as they clashed against the walls. Dripping socks peeled away from my raw feet.

I stomped down the corridor, hugging my shivering body, too angry to form words.

The laundry room at the back of the house was freezing. My feet slapped the linoleum, sparking shivers from the cold. The linoleum was white, marked by small squares of beige at regular intervals and a series of less regular scuff marks. A similar pattern covered the kitchen floor when I was young. The sun pouring in, constant as water from the tap, scorched that linoleum. A stain the color of a peach pit spread across the floor, marking the constancy of summer.

I pulled my sweater off first. The thing had saturated completely and now weighed well over a ton. As I flung it to the ground, tears welled in my eyes. This was so ridiculous. This was so… so completely… _so stupid!_

I wanted to hit something. I was strong and knew it, and I needed to exert that. I needed to feel that in some capacity, I was in control. I wanted to make something hurt the way I was hurting, suffer as I suffered. Nothing could be done in defiance of winter. It was not good defying fate; a man may as well seek to change the stars in the night sky.

"I'll bring up the fucking Southern Cross!" I announced to the washer and dryer.

I tried abusing my shirt. I ripped it over my head roughly enough to scatter buttons. This did little to satisfy my rage. I need to _harm_ something, not just tear thread. I was wet, cold and crying. I couldn't stop my body from trembling. Tears kept pouring from my eyes as my lips contorted strangely in silent whimpers and sobs. The noise built up in my chest until I needed to scream.

What I did then was spin. I spun my body like a dancer, like a top, letting broiling fury splatter onto the walls as it was wrenched from my body. Centripetal force stripped away those burning emotions, cleansing me. I spun and spun and spun, twirling around until the room blurred. I spun until my eyes rolled madly in my skull.

Then I collapsed to the floor, sobbing.

I don't know how much time passed between my arrival and my father's. All I know is that after my tantrum I was spent, sweating, shivering and panting as I curled around myself, hugging my knees to my chest. The waistband of my jeans chafed, crushed against my belly. The denim wore heavily against my skin. And I couldn't stop shaking. My hands twitched, rubbing against my legs. My shoulders shook. My head shook. Everything shook, everything hurt.

Dad didn't say anything damning. He did not take one look at me and exclaim, "Jesus, Tom." He did not shake his head, turn away, or blush at the sight of his sixteen-year-old son blubbering like a toddler. It made perfectly good sense to me. I wasn't supposed to act like a teenager. I looked like an adult, already stretching towards six feet in height, not lanky or puppy-faced like my friends. I came home to an empty house, came and went as I pleased, did my homework and studied. I did not act like and was not treated like a child.

Yet there I was, half-naked and in tears.

Dad sat next to me. "Hey, Tom." He wrapped an arm around my quivering shoulders. "You okay?"

I shook my head. "No," I sobbed. "No, I'm not okay. Nothing's okay." I couldn't believe the words had slipped out, but there they were. _No,_ I thought, _this is wrong. I don't complain. It doesn't bother me. I'm Thomas Collins. I'm the one who holds together. I'm sane. I'm healthy. I'm happy._

But I wasn't happy at all.

"What's wrong?" Dad asked.

In all my teenage bitterness, I wanted to tell him, _Everything's wrong._ The day last year clung to me, though, the day I treated him like a stranger. "I just want to be home," I said. It was not that I wanted to _go_ home. What would that accomplish? Home wasn't home any longer. Even Jessie, who held me and wept and knitted secrets into a hat, had stopped writing. My last three letters had been ignored, after only half a year. She had moved on.

I had moved on, too. I had Mark and Roger. I had different routes home and pieces of sky I loved more than others. I did not, however, have the stain on the linoleum. I did not have the doorway with my height penciled in as I grew. I did not have the corner no one knew of where every year on my birthday I made a deep gash in the floor.

I wondered if the new people living in my… in the house I grew up in had found that yet.

"This is our home now, Tom."

"No, it's not," I countered. "It's not… we're not New Yorkers. We're Californians." Living in New York didn't change anything. We belonged in Los Angeles. I spoke Spanish and had been up to my elbows in masa harina. I was used to biking and blading down the boardwalks at the beaches. I never liked swimming in the sea or boarding, but I liked to sit and watch the ocean. I never tired of that, watching the sparkles flit across the surface of the water, because the moment they arrived they departed, so that I never knew precisely what the ocean looked like.

And now it was raining. For two solid weeks, it had rained. I felt like Noah, like I should be building an ark and gathering two of every animal, like the rain would never, ever stop. It was the rain that pushed me over the edge. Up to that point, I held together. I managed. I pretended not to notice that the peanut butter tastes different here and ice cream doesn't melt as quickly, that winter brought snow and there had been no winds in the fall. I laughed when Mark and Roger complained about the winds. A Santa Anas knocks cars off the highway. My nose itched from not smelling brushfires.

Dad shook his head. "We're Americans. Remember your thesis in eighth grade?"

I nodded. That had been a proud essay in my United States History class. "To be an American is to be of the air," I wrote. "Migration is the nature of the Americas. We are a young country without history or culture to bind us and are thus transitory. Our earth is thick as clay, so we sink our roots into the people and around us."

"It didn't work," I said. "It didn't factor in… that we sever those roots, anyway. That we can't take the people with us." A fresh wave of tears battered my eyes as I realized that, angry with dislocation, I had submitted myself once more to the same misery. Why leave for college? Why go when I could stay?

---

I gathered my belongings once more and showered. The rain had brought on my tantrum and the shower washed it away. There was a statement here, an irony concerning the improvement of man on nature, the solace of universal technology, and of course the problem of a clean water supply, killing tens of thousands each year.

But those were battles and thoughts that would have to wait. This was my night to be a child, not a thinker, not even an adult. I dried myself off and pulled on my pajamas. It is strange that even those, which should have been the most comfortable clothes I owned, were uncomfortable. They were new and thicker, heavier than my body was accustomed to. In Los Angeles, I needed a sweatshirt a couple times a year. More often, the heat pressed so heavily I kicked my quilt to the floor and slept under a sheet, only for the comfort of being wrapped up.

Things are different in New York. I knew that would be true. The difficulty with fate is that no matter how thoroughly one struggles to be prepared, there is no preparation sufficient.

I joined Dad in the kitchen, and couldn't help but grin. We couldn't bring Los Angeles with us, so we sat together at the table and ate tacos for dinner. In Los Angeles, there were tacos everywhere. I hadn't seen one since coming to New York, and the sight made me grin.

"Ironic, isn't it?" I asked.

"What's ironic?" Dad asked in return.

I tore a piece of tortilla off and stuffed it into my mouth. "Well… we're evoking the California spirit with Tex-Mex. We're… it's a comment on the immigrant culture of the nation."

Dad rolled his eyes at me. "You're too smart for your own good, Thomas," he said. "Be careful. You'll get into trouble one day, without me and your mom there to bail you out."

He spoke pleasantly, so I returned the favor, keeping my voice buoyant as my heart lurched drunkenly across my chest. "You mean, pick my battles?" I asked. People told me so often to pick my battles. Dad nodded. "I've picked 'em already, Dad."

"Hm?"

My face cracked wide open with the silliest of grins. "Every single one, Dad. Those're my battles."

"You'll burn out," he predicted. "Thomas, please be careful."

I nodded. Today must have scared him. "I will," I promised. There's one thing about tacos: they're not really a cold-weather, indoors food. Tacos are messy; they're finger food. Tortillas should be cooked on a grill, leaving them cracked with lines of black, chewy and smoky. The ones we ate that night had been cooked in a pan. They tasted little of anything, certainly not the woodsmoke air of Southern California at dusk.

Trying to turn the mood up, Dad asked, "Why don't you have Mark around some time? Or Roger, you've been to his house so many times but I've never met him."

Introduce Roger to Dad? Why don't I just hit myself over the head with a frying pan? "I'll invite Mark over," I said. "But he's a little crazed right now." In the library, he snapped at Roger for telling him a joke. "He's taking his SAT next month."

Dad nodded. He understood that, though my SAT had passed fairly unremarked upon. I simply rolled out of bed one morning, arrived at school and plowed into the exam. My math score was close to perfect; my English score was not poor. I decided to be satisfied if my score was closer to 1500 than 1450. It was.

Mark, contrarily, had hit the books fairly hard. He was constantly studying: studying at lunch, studying in Library Practice, studying as he walked between classes. "When'll you take your test?" I asked Roger one day, as we walked to English.

He shrugged. "Same day as Mark." Roger hadn't opened a book yet--at least, not for the SAT. At the time, that was expected. "So, anyway, I was thinking, for Drama…" which was his attitude towards just about everything: if you wish it didn't exist, pretend.

"Well, I'd like to meet Roger," Dad said. "He seems like a nice boy."

"Roger's… Roger." I would not have called him 'nice'.

"He made you that hat," Dad reminded me.

I nodded. He had made me a hat, and tossed it into my lap with a cry of, "Merry Christmas! Open your present!" It was a knit hat, blue with a blue-and-green brim. "I learned how to knit," he had announced, grinning. "My brother's pregnant."

Mark, sitting beside me, had unwrapped a lengthy scarf, midnight blue and white stripes. He smiled. "Aw, Rog…" Roger blushed and shrugged it off, but he was grinning. Mark had tears in his eyes, and he had barely removed the scarf since. NowRoger was rarely seen without his needles. We called him 'Needle Boy'. He just can't keep his hands off needles anymore. It's not a hobby, it's an addiction.

"I'll invite Roger around after the SAT," I promised my father. He nodded, satisfied. "He's kind of strange," I warned.

Dad laughed. "What do you call yourself, Thomas?"

TO BE CONTINUED


	15. Mark: Murphy's Law

Disclaimer: Jonathan Larson owns; I'm just borrowing the characters to express my teenage angst.

MARK

I woke up grinning. I was on my back, like I always sleep--Roger sleeps on his side, which seems strange to me. How can he sleep with his lungs crushed? He probably doesn't sleep, just drifts through a hazy high. I do sleep, and I do it on my back. That day I awoke, opened my eyes, and felt my grin spread across my face until I could barely keep my eyes open.

I was only happier to get into the bathroom before Cindy. No waiting in the hall, no bouncing in the hall with my legs crossed! The day seemed determined to be perfect. She didn't even pound on the door while I brushed my teeth for the full two minutes.

There is a certain degree of risk involved in wearing blue jeans. My father doesn't like them: he says they look sloppy. I'll never forget his expression when he first saw Roger. He looked him over from head to toe, taking in torn jeans, wallet chain, and the fresh blood at his elbow (from a baseball game at school) and looked as though he might be ill. Ever since he's referred to Roger as either "that Davis boy" or "your sloppy friend."

I owned a pair of blue jeans, anyway, from my last birthday. Roger's advice was to ask for the jeans, a coonskin cap and a Bowie knife. Actually, I'm not completely certain that was advice. I certainly ignored it, and now owned a pair of blue jeans which I had worn a grand total of two times: the first on my birthday, when I zipped myself into the cliché-teenage pants with a tingle of ecstasy, as though these trousers had the ability to decrease my social awkwardness. Cindy said I looked like a male prostitute because, continuing her quotation, I kept swinging my ass around.

The next time I tried wearing the jeans, quite unwisely to temple, my father pulled me aside and hissed that if _did not_ take off _those ridiculous pants right this very instant_ he would strip me in the temple loos and make me wear my boxers to the service. I wasn't wearing boxers, but I understood the threat. No need to appear before the entire congregation and listen as the whispers began again. Fuck Nanette Himmelfarb, I did not make a move on her at her Bat Mitzvah, she cornered me in the boys' restroom and put her hand down my pants.

And I swear before G-d, that's all that happened.

Anyway, my jeans. They were nothing like my friends' jeans. Both Roger and Collins had blue jeans. Collins' were worn in so that the material was fairly flexible. Roger's were worn to the point that the thick, stiff denim was floppy as--well, I said 'old underwear'. Roger said something else. He wore bright patches, 1970s-style granny squares over torn knees, an iron-on patch on his back pocket. He had more than one pair, each distinctly unique but very much _Roger_.

And that day, I decided to brave the pants. I shivered as the cold, rigid material encased my legs. I had yet to derive pleasure from wearing the pants, but maintained a buoyant hope that this was because thus far these pants and inappropriate uses of the sexual organs had been strongly linked. Nevertheless, I pulled them on feeling like a knight preparing for battle and zipped myself in.

Over that I pulled on a nice button-down shirt, no need to press my luck, and a sweater. I brought the scarf up to my nose first and inhaled deeply. _Mmm…_ The smell was like pieces of Roger, with different smells at different times: nicotine and honeysuckle, boysweat and hair. The mohair tickled my nose. He had called it about 15 per cent mohair, and the scarf was very soft against the sensitive skin of my neck.

I strode into the kitchen with my chin a little higher than usual. "'Morning, Mark," is how my mother told me that the pants were acceptable.

"Hi, Mom."

"It's nice to see your eyes for a change." Her gaze lingered on me for a moment, then she turned away and returned to the counter. It occurred to me that at seventeen, I should have been either making my own lunches or buying them in the cafeteria, but I saw no reason to do so. Mom said she didn't mind, and I doubt I could make a pastrami sandwich as well as she did. I doubt _anyone_ could make such a good sandwich!

I blushed. "May I make a phone call?" I asked. I didn't need permission as a rule, but making a call at seven a.m. was out of the ordinary and my parents seem unable to realize that if I'm on the telephone, I can't talk to them. They begin asking questions and my options are to either answer and be talking with them when someone answers, or ignore them and get lectured for being downright rude.

Mom frowned. "Who are you calling so early?" she asked. "It's barely seven o'clock, Mark."

"Roger Davis." That was how I referred to him in front of my parents. They didn't care for Roger, so I was unusually formal in referencing him. "I have a math test tomorrow and I wanted to ask him to help me with some studying." It was a lie. The test existed, but Roger had not tutored me in ages. But Mom bought it and approved, so I dashed into the hall and dialed.

"Hello?"

"Hi, may I please speak to Roger?" I _hate_ telephone calls. When I was small, my parents would call to me to answer the phone and I never did it right. I was either not introducing myself properly or being too informal or coughing. Eventually I pieced together a proper sentence: _Hi, you've reached the Cohens, this is Mark speaking._ I felt like an answering machine every time I said it.

"Wait a moment." The telephone was covered, then, "Roger! Who's calling you so early?"

"Ask me if I care," Roger retorted. Into the phone he said, "Hey," like he knew it was me.

"Hi." I had so much to tell him. First there was my big news, the reason I awoke grinning like a mad fool, and then, less important but equally pressing, the issue of my jeans. Did I want to tell Roger about my jeans? Maybe I would wait and see if he noticed. I definitely wanted to meet him before school. It was February, so our AP classes, including first period, were much more strenuous with review. "Can you pick me up?" I blurted.

He groaned. "I don't like driving this early." I could hear why: he sounded half-asleep.

"No, no, it's okay, you can walk me."

"Walk you to school?" he asked.

Was he high? "Is that okay?"

"Uh… sure. Any reason?"

YES! Yes, a thousand reasons! Well, all right, three. But three amazing, really excellent reasons! Three perfect reasons, three indisputably amazing reasons! "No."

"Well then I'll see you in a little while, okay?"

"Yes."

"'Bye, Mark."

"'Bye, Roger."

My heart was pounding. This day kept getting better and better. I was flying. Nothing could go wrong.

_I am thirteen. Roger is twelve. We're sharing a desk in English class. I'm trying to listen to our teacher give us a lecture on _The Witch of Blackbird Pond_; Roger, not in the least interested, is doodling. He's made a row of boxes. Roger's an awful artist, but he has a wicked wit and I crane my neck just slightly to see what he's inking into the comic._

_Roger catches me watching him. He gives a little grin with the tip of his tongue poking at me and covers the page. I slump back and listen to an explanation of Puritanical society. She's discussing church attendance, how in small towns everyone knew who did and did not go to church and what that meant to people who believed in Puritanism._

_Roger's elbow digs into my ribs and he pushes over his comic. It's great: a group of sheep stand next to a fence. Three subsequent boxes show different sheep leaping over the fence, wearing graduate caps and carrying diplomas in their mouths. The grass is etched green on the other side. Clever, Rog. The final box reveals that the opposite side of the fence is a slaughterhouse._

_We giggle and are caught. "Mr. Cohen--Mr. Davis. Share the joke, please."_

_The teacher is challenging us. I'm about ready to hold up Roger's comic for the entire class. It's brilliant. In this moment, I love Roger, his ink-smudged fingers moving across the page, the way he grins like he owns the world. I love his arrogance. This is not romantic love, this is the love of a person I wish to be, lanky limbs I wish were mine to twine and stretch and trip over, slithering green eyes with a steady stare._

_I'm so busying admiring my friend, I barely hear him say, "Well they're a bunch of morons, aren't they? All the Puritans. I mean they're just inviting Murphy's Law."_

_"What's that?" I wonder aloud._

_"Muphy's Law," says Roger, his voice loud enough for the entire class to hear him clearly, "states that anything that can go wrong, will go wrong."_

I returned to the kitchen just as Cindy stumbled in through the back door. At first I assumed she had been taking out the garbage or something. Morning is a horrible time for chores, before a person is fully awake and so is likely to trip, but a closer look at my sister told me this was more than garbage. She had grass in her hair and her clothes were dirty and disheveled.

Mom went to her immediately. "Cindy," she said, relieved, and pulled my sister into a hug. When she drew back, she slapped her across the face.

I jumped back, terrified. My parents don't hit. I had received my share of spankings, some more deserved than others in my opinion, but I'd never been beaten or smacked around and neither had Cindy. That girl got away with murder. Of course, she usually managed this by blaming things on me. Nevertheless, even when she was caught out, Cindy was grounded, not hit. She was grounded for staying out past her curfew, for coming home with booze on her breath. She was never hit, though, nor was I, precisely the reason I had my back against the wall.

Mom didn't say a word and neither did Cindy, at least until Dad showed up. He was the one who demanded, "Where have you been all night?"

"Out."

_Out? All night!_

"Where?" Dad repeated. "What did you think you were doing? You might've called, we were worried sick!"

Cindy tossed her head and snorted. "Please," she replied. "You're both well-rested, you didn't even know I was gone until this morning. Why d'you think you're so pissed? It's just 'cause you're crappy parents."

I was shocked. I had never heard anyone speak to her or his parents that way. I could imagine Roger giving lip--he does to teachers constantly--but never blatantly disrespectful, especially to parents like mine! Mom and Dad were good parents. They loved us and did their best for us. Sure, sometimes Dad's best left me in tears, sometimes Mom's best left me feeling completely misunderstood, but they tried.

"It's not their fault you snuck out at midnight to see Tristan Stern!" I snapped.

I meant to defend my parents. Already my heart was thrashing about, unable to believe I had spoken up, but when my parents turned to me I thought it would snap free. "You _knew_ about this?" Dad demanded.

Mom said, "Oh, Mark," then sobbed and sank into a chair.

Through the window, I saw Roger waiting in front of the house. I had forgotten all about him, caught up in Cindy's arrival.

"I didn't know anything," I squeaked. "I just… I… I knew that… that Cindy and Tris…"

"You're grounded," Dad said. "You're grounded for a month. No seeing Tom or that Davis boy, no going to the movies, no shopping." He was addressing me, but after my friends' names he seemed to have forgotten that. I never went to the movies or went shopping, unless Mom dragged me. "Nowhere but school and home, nowhere."

My mouth fell open. "But I didn't do anything," I protested. "You can't punish me for something Cindy did!"

"I can do whatever I want! You can't! You can go to school, come home, and study, that's it! Do you understand, Marcus?"

"No, I don't," I admitted. "I don't understand," I continued, on the verge of tears, "why Cindy misbehaves and she gets away with it and I do the slightest thing and you spank me or ground me! And I didn't even do anything!" I was furious, terrified, and the two made me tremble. Before Dad could recover sufficiently from my outburst, I shouted, "And now you can't do _anything_ because I'm going to school!"

Roger saw immediately that something wasn't right. "What's wrong?" he asked, and reached out a hand. My heart stopped dead. Much as I wanted him to touch me, with that special touch he has that spreads warmth and comfort and can bring a grown man to his knees, my father would probably ground me further for being gay.

"Not now," I muttered.

"Okay." He looked as though someone had canceled Christmas, but he accepted it. Roger began walking. I walked beside him, watching my feet.

A couple of blocks later, I told Roger, "I really do love this scarf." It was the closest I could muster to an apology at the time. Everything that had happened that morning swirled in my head, shouting and pounding and pulling my lips into a frown. I knew I was trembling. My stomach revolted. I needed, and knew I needed, to hold together until we reached school. Collins would help me. He would make sense of this! I kept asking myself, was I right to stand up to my father? Was I disrespecting him? Was it _right_ that I had disrespected him, since he was treating me unfairly?

"Mark, what's wrong?"

I shook my head. "It's nothing.

Roger planted his feet firmly against the pavement. "Mark, it's not nothing. What-- is this about that night at my house?" he asked. For a moment I could not remember what he meant, then it came flooding back: Roger and I, on the floor of his bedroom, Roger toying with my hair absently as I babbled about nothing important. Nothing happened. We sat and talked, and that was about it until Mr. Davis came in and lost his temper.

"No," I said. "I had forgotten all about that. Just drop it, Roger, I'm fine."

He shrugged. "Okay." Something in his face wanted to cry, but he kept quiet. "Well… this is for you," he said, offering me a package wrapped in stiff brown paper. "For your birthday," he added.

"Oh," I said. My birthday--I had forgotten. I had assumed that Roger had forgotten, though three weeks ago he gave me a hug. I once asked Roger what he wanted for his birthday. He said he wanted a hug.

"You can open it," he added. "If you want to."

"I'll, uh… yeah…"

Roger's knitting skills were progressing more rapidly than I would have guessed. "Jeez, Roger, you didn't have to…"

His face fell, if possible, even further. Without intending to, I think I had effectively destroyed him that morning. "You don't like it?" he asked.

"Like--no, Roger! I love it, it's great." I couldn't decide if I loved or hated it. He had knit me a sweater--a sweater! An entire sweater! For someone as butch as people think Roger is, he can be a real girl. It was a neat design, bright red and sedate yellow in the same yarn as my scarf, with stripes that grew progressively smaller as the sweater reached its neck. I dropped my backpack and pulled on the sweater. "It's a little big," I admitted, "but I love it! Thank you."

I did not love it. I had mixed feelings for it. But Roger needed me to love it, so I said I did and I hugged him. "You're welcome. Oh, and these." He handed me three small, thin cylinders, ink cartridges for my mock fountain pen. "I thought they could get you through your play."

"Oh!" Of course! In all the commotion of the morning, I had completely forgotten. "Roger, you'll never guess, I finished it!"

"You--what? Mark! Your first play!" Again with his strange femininity, Roger pulled me into his arms and hugged me. "So, when do I get to read it?" he asked. "I get to read it, right?"

"Yeah, yeah, of course." This was just what I needed. My day brightened with Roger's enthusiasm. "Here." I fished the notebook out of my backpack. "You're the first."

Roger took the notebook and clutched it to his chest, as though it was a cherished possession instead of a beat-up dog-eared spiral-bound. "I can't wait," he told me.

TO BE CONTINUED!

And believe me, it's going to get much more dramatic. evil grin


	16. Roger: Things We Think We Know

Disclaimer: Jonathan Larson owns; I'm just borrowing the characters to express my teenage angst.

ROGER

I only know the time from the hands of the neon-lit clock behind the bar: 1:53 p.m. I'm cold and confused; my eyes and nose sting from the intoxicated air. The bar is not abandoned, completely, thanks to the group of college-aged boys clustered around a sticky-topped wooden table, occasionally letting off a loud cry of triumph and amusement. I cannot bring myself to agree with them. I sit at a table, feeling too small on the deep bench. Across from me sits the man who is my father.

"I didn't know," he says. He is fairly lucid, but thoroughly drunk, looking at me and seeing somebody else. "I didn't know what was going on when they came… through the streets. In the air. I didn't know. They tell you what it is, they say they're training you, but…" Dad paused to shake his head. "Nothing can prepare you. I walked out seeing gloss… I killed somebody."

The bottom drops out of my churning stomach. I'm less sleepy now. What's going on? What does he mean? I don't know much about Dad's past. He's quiet about it, hides the German accent so well that even when he is angry or drunk he does not slip, save into speaking the words perfectly. I never asked about his past.

I never imagined it could be so bad. Dad killed someone? When? Why? I want to ask but don't dare. He looks as though he's in a trance, and if I break it, I just know he'll be furious. He'll realize who I am, I'm Roger, I'm the bad son, not the son he takes out in the middle of the night to talk to, not the person he chooses for company. My heart's bursting that he chose me. At the same time… he can't've wanted me. I'm just waiting for him to call me 'Peter'.

"They put a gun in my hands and I fired it."

Jesus. I repress a shudder at the thought, and immediately sneak the fork off the table and push it against my palm. It's not right to think that way, not about a parent.

Dad pulls a chain out from beneath his shirt and takes it off. It's a necklace. He hands it to me. "Do you know who this is, Roger?" he asks.

I shake my head. It's a man in a vaguely crude Renaissance style drawing. He sits atop a horse bearing a sword in his hand.

"That's Saint George, Roger," Dad says, like this should mean a lot to me. I know the basic stories: Saint George rescues a damsel, Saint George slays a dragon. I never cared for the metaphors. Didn't dragons deserve life, too? And who said ladies are virtuous? Hell, Cindy Cohen disproves that theory. "He's the patron saint of soldiers. Saved my life during the war."

And he tells me: "I killed a man, Roger. I shot him dead, just _pff_, gone. After that I dropped my gun and ran. Wasn't much of a soldier. I found a window, cracked, to a store cellar, and spent weeks there before the Americans found me. I spent the whole time listening to gunfire and praying. And I'm alive, Roger. I'm alive."

My heart jolts, because I realize when my father fought. Gooseflesh ripples across my arms and legs. I knew he was in Hitler Youth during the war, but I never knew this. My father was a soldier. My father was a murderer. My father… my father fought--and killed--in the streets of Berlin.

---

The next day, I'm sitting in history class wondering how nothing has changed. It's me and Mark and Collins in the back of the class, me and Mark and Collins not really writing our essays because Mark has big news for us. About two weeks ago I was ready to strangle Mr. Cohen for the mood he sent Mark to school in, but the next day Mark told us--Collins and me--that he felt much better, he and his dad had a long talk and everything was sorted.

I want to talk about the things my dad told me. I need to think and I can't. Thinking isn't my forte, but Collins and Mark are quite good at reasoning things through. They're smart in ways I never could be.

But I can't ask them. I don't need them to look at me that way. Already my blood hurts me. It's dirty. It's tainted. My father, my own father, the things he did… I'm nauseous thinking about it. How could he? As it strikes me that what he did was thoroughly disgusting, I think of the camps and it occurs to me… I look strangely at Mark. I know his grandfather was in the camps. What about his father? I do the math in my head: Cindy was born nineteen years after the end of the war. It's possible Mr. Cohen was never in the camps. It is possible.

I shiver, breathing easier, though I know it doesn't matter. Mark would hate me, anyway, if he knew.

"You okay?" Collins asks.

I look up. Oh. He means me. I nod. "Fine."

He doesn't believe that. "Okay. Mark, you were saying?"

Mark takes a deep breath, his face plastered with glumness, and tells us, "Cindy… killed the bunny."

My face cracks wide open with pent-up giggles. I glance at Collins. He's more restrained, but his eyes are smiling. "You serious?" he asks. Mark nods, then buries his face in his hands. "Mark, it's okay, man."

"I'm selfish," Mark murmurs.

As Collins tries to comfort him, I leap out of my seat and stride to the front of the room. "Mrs. Jones?" I ask. "Could Mark, Tom and me have a moment outside, please?" She looks up, ready to ask why, and I jerk my head. She notices Mark and nods. I go to the back of the class. "Come on, Mark," I say. "Collins, let's go."

Behind the classroom, I hug Mark and rub his back. "It's okay," Collins tells him.

"I don't see how," Mark admits. "Cindy's having a baby… fuck… and all I can think about is myself."

I glance at Collins. He knows something. He knows something that I don't, and for some reason, that makes me hurt. After a moment I realize it's envy. Mark always talks to me. He came to me when his grandfather was dying. Wasn't I good to him? Wasn't I a good enough friend?

In this moment, I hate Collins. Why does he have to be so _perfect_? Why does he have to take my friend? Worst of all is the knowledge that I could not possibly compete. Mark deserved a friend like Collins, not some substance-abusing little Nazi whelp. I turn to go.

"Roger?"

I turn back. Mark, tear-stained, watches me with his mouth open. "Yeah?"

"Don't," he says. I put my arm around his shoulder, and I feel like a liar because how can I comfort him, how can I be his friend, knowing what I know?

We sit outside for a long time, talking about Cindy and what she did. She won't name the father, Mark says, and his parents don't know if they're going to keep it or not, but it's hard to listen to. They speak as though the decision is their to make. "I want to know what she wants," Mark says. "It's… I never thought this would happen, something like this…"

Collins hugs him. I light up a joint and we share it. After he takes his first puff, Mark doubles over, coughing. He's never had marijuana before, and momentarily I feel a pang of guilt. They tell you that drugs are bad, and well, I guess a part of me thinks so. But it's not a constant rule. Collins, for example, he uses marijuana a little but only a tiny bit, it relaxes him. I smoke a lot, I mean not too much and it doesn't change me that much, I just like it.

But it's different for Mark. Collins is so smart, nothing can change that, it's super-human. Me, doesn't matter since I'm not smart, not headed for college. Mark's different. Mark's better. Even so, when he reaches for the joint, I only hesitate half a second before handing it to him.

Mark's a good student with a future so bright he oughta wear sunglasses, but he's a person, too. He needs to be treated like one.

The joint upsets Mark. I don't think he even gets a buzz, he just looks at me and says, "How can you do that? Stop it! I can't do this, I'm going to college!" I think he's angry with himself for having taken the joint at all. It's so much easier to blame me. I brought the drugs, I lit up, so it's not his fault for taking it, it's my fault for offering it. That's crap, but I'm not one to go off at someone as upset as Mark. Besides, the marijuana is calming me.

"Mark, they smoke tons of pot in college," Collins says.

Mark starts to cry. I pull him into my arms and rub his back. "Shh, shh," I whisper. I've done this so many times with Sarah, so many times wished someone would do it for me, it's second nature. "Shh, sweetheart, it's okay. You're okay." I don't even know I'm calling him the name until it's done, and then it's too late, but Mark says nothing so I assume he accepts it.

And two days later, during English class, I finish Mark's play for the second time, grinning insanely. Mark has always been my best friend and I've always thought the world of him, but Mark is a _genius_ and here in my hands is irrefutable proof. Okay, it's not perfect, I admit that. The father is difficult to believe and Matt has no spine, but there's more potential here than… than even a blind man could miss! I hug the notebook to my chest and give it a good squeeze.

I don't notice the paper on the floor until Mr. Simpson points it out. "What's that?" he asks, already picking it up. I haven't a clue, but apparently Mark does because he's frozen and the color is draining from his face as Simpson opens the paper. His eyes widen slightly, and he says, "Who… is this yours, Roger?"

I glance at Mark. I'm fairly certain the paper was in the notebook, and fairly certain it's worth a pinch of trouble, and though I've never minded trouble Mark hates it, especially now that his parents aren't even allowing him over to my house unless my parents are there, which they aren't of course, and I miss Mark like mad. But that's not exactly something one says, is it? I miss you, Mark. I miss spending time with you. It'd be okay to a girl, maybe, but to him…

So this is an opportunity on all fronts. I take the blame and spare Mark the trouble. I catch that trouble for myself and finally Dad looks at me. He hasn't let his eyes linger since giving me the Saint George, which I've not taken off except in the shower, and even then I'm quicker than usual and I slap the chain around my neck even before grabbing a towel. Whatever Mark's done is with disciplining, and Dad has to look at me, acknowledge me to discipline me. So I'm glad to be in trouble for Mark. I'm glad to help and glad to be seen.

"Yes," I say. "It's mine, Mr. Simpson."

Simpson nods. He folds the paper, unable to look at it, and says, "I'd like you to stay after class, Roger." I nod.

After class, I'm still sitting at my desk. Simpson and I are the only people in the room. "Roger," he says, then pauses. I wish I knew what was making him so uncomfortable. "Um… try not to bring that stuff to class, okay?" he says. "I know you know better. It's… it's just not appropriate for you to be thinking about… hormones during class. You should be focusing on studying."

I nod. "I'm really sorry, Mr. Simpson," I say, adding the title to assure him of my utmost respect. And I do respect Simpson, though he's a bit pathetic and sad. He's middle-aged, single, and sometimes wears a suit to school 'because it's fun to dress up once in a while.' "It won't happen again."

He nods. "Okay, you may go, Roger."

"May I have it back?" I ask.

Simpson hesitates, then nods. He hands me the paper. "I know you'll be careful about this," he says, "so all I can think to say is, make the right choices."

"I will," I promise. I sling my bag of my shoulder and head out to break, unfolding the paper as I do.

My heart catches in my throat. _Shit._ This is a picture, a hand-drawn picture of a boy, and that boy is stark naked. That boy smiles up through long eyelashes; he has one hand resting on his inner thigh, almost touching himself, the other reaching out with splayed fingers. He seduces and hints at a secret. He wears his nakedness like a grand cloak, proud of his skinny torso and the penis--circumcised, I note--attempting to hide, though an outline remains of a more prominent member, erased as the artist lost his note.

And that boy is me.

I know it is. He looks like me--not down there, he and I are nothing alike in that region, but he has my long fingers, complete with cross-hatched calluses and bitten fingernails. And at the bottom of the page, my name is written.

Mark is home from school, which is just as well. I have the chance to think about this, figure out what's going on and how I feel about it.

I knew he was gay. I mean, I thought I knew. What I never considered was that he might be gay for me. Mark and I, we're close. I'm comfortable sleeping in bed with him, or was when his parents let him come over to my house. Sometimes it wasn't even for sleepover nights. If he was tired or upset about something, I told him he could have a nap if he wanted, and if he had trouble getting to sleep I sat with him or played a little. We never talked about it. We would wake up together and that was just fine, end of story.

And I figure, I liked that. I like lying close together with someone, especially with Mark. So if it's a little hot for Mark, well, I'm fine with that fact. Sometimes a guy needs closeness. It's not hurting either of us.

---

I slip the oven mitts off my hands and toss them on the counter. A baking tray rests on the stovetop, topped with tiny little golden-brown twists of dough. I grin at Collins. "Come on, Tom. Let's eat out on the porch." I scoop a few handfuls into a bowl, careful not to touch the hot sheet of metal. "You okay sharing a dish?" I ask.

"Yeah," he says, "it's no big deal."

We sit cross-legged on the back porch. It's dark out and raining fairly steadily; despite Collins' assurances that he's fine walking home, it's no big deal, I'm already waiting for the moment to ask him if he'd like to spend the night. "Is 'no big deal' a California thing?" I ask. Collins doesn't say "cowabunga" or "dude" or anything like that, but there are little things he says that are just different. Mark says "no big deal", too, but maybe he picked it up from Collins and I never noticed.

Collins shrugs. "I wouldn't know," he tells me. "I'm still pretty thoroughly California."

I pick up a wonton and crunch into it. Mmm, we've done quite well, Collins and I. I chase the hot dough with a slug of Coke and ask him, "Would you tell me about it?" I have to raise my voice to be heard over the din of the rain. "Tell me about California."

"Okay… what do you want to know?"

"I dunno. Do you speak Spanish?"

He nods. "I lived in L.A., that's not far from the border."

"Say something in Spanish."

"_Vivo en el Pueblo de la Reina de Los Ángeles,_" he says. "'I live in The City of the Queen of Angels, which is what L.A. is really called."

"Say something else."

Then Collins sighs, rolls his eyes at me, teasing, opens his mouth and says in a high voice, "_Ay, que dolor! Me caí en un hoyo!"_

"What's that?" I ask.

"Aah, the pain! I fell in a hole!"

When it's too cold outside we move up to my room. I slide onto the floor. Collins sits beside me.

"I like your glowstars," he says.

"Thanks. Wanna see 'em glow?"

He does, so I switch off the lights and we lie, head by head but with our feet pointing different directions, and watch the stars stuck to my ceiling. We breathe, and it could be the silence of darkness, but our breathing is much louder now than it was before.

"Do you miss Los Angeles?" I ask after a while.

"Sometimes," Collins admits. "It helps having friends here. It helps having somewhere to miss, too."

I know what he means. Sometimes, when I'm particularly upset, I wish I could have a place to run to, gardens to conjure like Mark does or a city across the nation like Collins left behind. Mine is no place but the feeling lifting my chest as I strum my guitar and hum a little tune and sometimes, if I trust my voice, sing.

"Roger."

"Hm?"

"I'm--"

The door opens. "Roger? Could I have a word with you, please?"

It's Dad. I understand that though he phrased it as a request, he was not asking. I stand. "Um, if you'll excuse me," I say to Collins.

Dad leads me into his room. I've never thought of it as Mom's room, though she sleeps there, too. I can see her clothes in the closet and smell her perfume lightly on the air, or perhaps it has soaked into the creamy bedsheets. I sometimes think my parents aren't around enough to leave an imprint on the house, but in their bedroom I see things of a humiliatingly intimate nature, things like jewelry, a little bottle of pills, used underwear.

"This was in one of your schoolbooks," Dad tells me, pulling my attention back to him. He's shaking a folded sheet of paper, and I know immediately that it's Mark's drawing. "I…" He shakes head, unable to believe, unsure where to start. "Say something!" he snaps at me. "Don't you have anything to say? Don't you know it's disgusting?"

"It's not disgusting." Usually, when Dad starts shouting, I start goading him. I start saying all the right words, the ones that make him the angriest. This time, I'm just saying what I believe. Homosexuality just _is_. It's not right or wrong.

He smacks me across the mouth. "Yes it is, Roger."

"No, Dad, it's not."

"Don't give me cheek," he warns, as he's always warning. Dad's always warning me. Don't give me lip. Don't talk about that. Don't read this. Don't leave your stuff lying around.

"I'm not. It's okay to be gay, Dad, it's--"

Another smack. "Not in this house."

What I do then, I don't know if I do it from habit or because it's honestly funny. He thinks I'm gay? Absolutely not. Sure, I can look at guys and appreciate a pretty smile, a nice ass, but I'd rather see it on a girl. Penises don't turn me on. It's so ridiculous that my father thinks I'm a homosexual, I start to laugh. Gay? Me? It's just not plausible.

When he hits me this time I'm already red in the face and a little loopy from the laughter, it's that hard, and I topple right over and stop laughing when my shoulder hits hard against the wall. "Pornography," Dad mutters. "Faggot porno."

Every time I think clearly about this, when I'm lying in bed or in the bath and I'm calm and secluded enough to think about these moments from a purely logical standpoint, I promise that _next time_ I'll curl up and squeeze into a corner to protect myself, but right now, while he yanks me to my feet, I know that my skin is flaming with pleasure on the place at the base of my neck where his knuckle scraped my skin. I know that I'm not thinking about the wall and how quickly it comes up to me, I'm thinking about the fact that it's his hand cupping my head. I'm thinking that it's his voice speaking to me, just me, only for me.

After a while he stops. I don't know how long it's been. He sets me on my feet and straightens my shirt and says, "Ask your friend to go home now, Roger."

That's when I start to feel bad. I start to, and as I turn from the room I feel worse, and by the time I reach my bedroom door all I can think of is what must Collins think now? And I'm ashamed. The ugliness of my family has been aired in public, aired for _him_, for the boy who won't judge or ridicule, who will just put it all into painful, honest perspective and make me feel about this in a way I'm not comfortable feeling.

I know he's staring at me, but I can't make myself look back at him. "I think it's better if you go now," I say. "I'll see you on Monday."

"Rog…"

He reaches out to touch me, but I repeat, "Monday." Because it's Collins, I add, "I'll explain on Monday."

"I understand," he says, telling me it's too late, he's already set in his belief. _Shit_.

---

On Saturday morning, I slide into the desk next to Mark's. He looks positively green. "Hey," I say, grinning. "Ready to kick some SAT ass?"

Mark swallows loudly, shakes his head and takes a drink of water. I wonder if he slept last night. "C'mon," I encourage him, "just show them how great you are."

The proctor calls us to attention and instructs us in basic things, which pencil to use (#2) and how to fill in our answer documents. The test begins, three hours of questions, and even I feel a stir of nerves as I open the booklet, though I don't care about college. Maybe, maybe not. It's an option, but unlike Mark, I don't think it's the only option, and specifically probably not the right option for me. School has never suited me.

But as I scan the test, my nerves ease. Why was Mark studying and stressing about this test? It's the easiest thing I've ever seen.

TO BE CONTINUED!

I promised drama, didn't I? And it will get evenmore dramatic. Snicker. Reviews are always loved!

On history: In the Battle of Berlin, most of the German soldiers were members of Hitler Youth.


	17. Collins: Keeping it Together

Disclaimer: Jonathan Larson owns; I'm just borrowing the characters to express my teenage angst.

COLLINS

"Say something happens, something… something horrible. Something despicable. And you don't know it's going to happen, you don't even see it happen, but you know when it happens. And you don't stop it."

This inarticulate question I posed to my father on Sunday evening, two days after Roger's place, when I listened and did nothing. Dad and I were in the kitchen; he was cooking and I was setting the table when I looked up and, seemingly randomly, posed my confused inquiry.

"How do you know this happened?" Dad asked. I always appreciated that he never treated my concerns as meaningless. In Los Angeles, when I dated my first boyfriend (Joshua, a nice enough boy), Dad was there talking me through every worry: asking him out, what did this gesture mean, was I really in love, were we right for each other? Not once did Dad treat this as a teenage crush. He counseled me as though through the real thing. He always did that.

But now, I had no answer for him. What I had done… For two nights I had barely slept, listening to those noises in my memory and seeing Roger's face as he asked me to leave. He had looked at the floor as a purple stain grew on his forehead, and I doubt he knew he was crying. I remember perfectly his expression four months ago as he insisted, furious, the there was nothing amiss in his home.

I knew otherwise, had heard it clearly. Yet throughout his ordeal, I did nothing. Even now I knew not why. In those moments, listening, I knew what was happening. I knew it was wrong. Why did I not act? Why did I not plan in those months I spent worrying? I looked for signs of the truth, but never considered what I would do upon having it confirmed.

_Coward._

"I… it's a hypothetical," I lied. I had finished setting the table. I unearthed the milk from the refrigerator, drank from the carton then grabbed a glass. Disease terrifies me. In others, I have no difficulty. Volunteering at the hospital never taxed me: death is a fact and I accept it. In my teenage selfishness, I cannot accept my own death. Well, perhaps death, the finale, but what precedes that terrifies me. I never want to feel my body break down. One of the worst is osteoperosis. I never want to feel my bones dissolve.

"We were discussing it in history class and I wondered what you thought," I reiterated.

Suddenly, I felt ill. _You're looking for drama because you're from Los Angeles where there are whores and junkies on every corner, and Scarsdale is boring, and you're just using me to try to spice up your existence!_ Could it be that Roger was correct? Was I only looking for drama? Had I found this by mere coincidence, or befriended him from some strange sense for it?

"Okay." Dad obviously did not believe my lie. "Well, say you know beyond doubt that this is happening, you should try to stop it."

Of course. He was facing away from me, occupied with a rather sharp knife that he did not want to take his eyes off for a second, but I felt judgment nevertheless. "What if you can't?"

"Try."

"What if…" I conjured a lump of spit from my throat to ease the dryness in my mouth, then swallowed, feeling little better. "What if you're scared? If you do nothing because you're scared to make it worse, or for yourself?"

"That's cowardice." Dad never treated me like a child. He never disregarded my concerns as teenage silliness. That's a two-edged sword, and the edge that rarely cut so deep was his blunt honesty. Dad momentarily turned to face me. "Thomas, I can help you much better if you'll tell me what's going on."

"It's a hypothetical."

"Uh-huh. Come sit down."

We sat at the table; I began eating almost immediately. I have manners. If I was at a friend's house or out in public, or even around Mom, I was very polite. I only took after the chef, didn't eat until he or she had taken the first bite, put my napkin on my lap, all that stuff. Dad never cared. 'I know you _can_ do it,' he would say, 'and in the hypothetical existence where your growth spurts stop, maybe I'll expect you to.' This was not one of those instances.

Besides, pizza--even homemade pizza--decries affectation. It's a messy food that smears oil and tomato sauce across a person's face. Pizza needs to be enjoyed, in the same way ice cream cones and cheeseburgers in paper wrappers need to be enjoyed. Eating it neatly is doing a disservice to the pizza, and to the self. I once explained this to my mother. She rolled her eyes and said, "Be a lawyer, Thomas. You can B.S. your way through anything."

"Dad, what I was saying earlier?"

He nodded.

"What if… say it's someone you know. And say he wouldn't want you to interfere."

"If a friend does something horrible?" Dad asked.

"No! No, he…" I sighed. There was no polite way to say this, no euphemism. "Something horrible" was slightly prettier than "beat the crap out of him", but it rang ill nonetheless. "If something horrible is done to him," I said, resigned, knowing what Dad would say and knowing he was right.

"There is no excuse for doing nothing," he said, "if something is done to someone you care about, and you do nothing."

I stopped eating. The food tasted like ash. "What if it's not nothing?" I asked. "What if it's just, afterwards, you're there when he needs you and…"

There was no purpose in continuing. Dad was right. There was no excuse, no explanation for what I had done. "I know you wanted me to ease your conscience. I'm sorry, Thomas."

"It's a hypothetical," I said.

"Okay. Something's in your eye?"

I nodded. "Yeah."

Dad guessed, "How's Mark?" If he had ever met Roger, he would have known. Dad had been concerned for Mark since meeting him, insistent that something was not right with him--I was relieved to hear it. Dad saw what I saw. If only he had seen sooner. If only he had seen _Roger_…

"It's not Mark."

"For what it's worth, Tom, I don't think there is any crime for which there is no redemption." Dad has no religion. I never asked if he believed in G-d: somehow, the question seemed irrelevant. He spoke to me of what I came to see as a moral equilibrium, the art of damage and reparation. It was a strange thing. The damage was necessary prior to reparation. There was no accumulation of goodness.

So everything I had tried to do right by Roger, was not undone. It did not factor into this equation of my cowardice. Nevertheless, Dad's words comforted me. They offered hope. "Thanks," I said.

"It will be difficult."

"I'll be okay." I believed that. I had harmed Roger by inaction. Surely action would be better. Action, once begun, would be easier, would be momentum. All it took was that one step.

Sometimes Dad sees more than I let show. "And your friend?" he asked.

And Roger? Would he be okay? Would he be okay, when his father beats him and his mother ignores him and his best friend is afraid he's going crazy? What was Roger's life? Caring for his sister? Playing his guitar? And the boy didn't care about himself. That was the worst part. He thought things about himself that are common to think of one's enemies.

"Christ… bug in my eye."

"Tom. Tell me his name."

I wanted to. I wanted to give Dad the responsibility. He would know what to do, and he had the presence of mind to do it. "I… can't." I could not be a child, hiding behind Mother's apron--or Dad's, in this instance. This was my problem, my friend's problem, and I needed to solve it without drawing in outside forces.

"Then, Tom, you have to do the right thing. For yourself as much as for him."

I hated when he was so right. I didn't want to think about it just then. I wanted to ignore it. That luxury was afforded me as it never could be afforded to Roger. Ignorance, as they say, is bliss.

---

That morning, I dragged out the UC Santa Cruz sweater I had not worn since moving to New York. It was dark blue, fuzzy on the inside and on the outside emblazoned with a creeping banana slug, the Santa Cruz mascot. Something about the sweater or maybe the college seemed to underline my principles that day, the importance of acceptance and lack of competition. Of all the UCs, Santa Cruz had the reputation of being the most laid-back.

I remembered my visit to UCSC. It was a nice place: the campus was up on a hill, a grass green setting, overlooking the sea. It was impossibly perfect. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine being a student there. My college letters would be coming soon, and wouldn't UCSC be a nice place to spend four years?

_Damn._ Yes, college letters would arrive soon. That meant it was time to tell my parents the truth. _No._ I pushed that to the back of my mind. Roger's issue was more urgent. Mine could wait.

I had no intention of calling in the cavalry. I did not know what I meant to do, exactly, but I was certain of the first step: Roger's cooperation. The entire story had yet to be revealed. Perhaps Mr. Davis had a drinking problem. Perhaps a drug problem. If the man is ill, he needs rehabilitation.

A part of me wanted him to be ill. That at least made sense. He had no control, had no idea, did not know that he was destroying one of the most incredible people-- Half through with that thought, I closed my eyes and counted to ten. Furious as I wanted to be, at that moment it would do me no good.

I was too busy worrying to be furious, anyway. Mark and I were in English class, second period, and we had yet to see any sign of Roger. I tossed a note onto his desk. _Mark-- do you know Roger's dad? --Tom_ I was only ever "Tom" to him when we passed notes.

_Tom-- yeah, what about him? --Mark_

_Is he nice?_

_He's a parent. I don't really get parents._

I had nothing against parents. Actually, I thought my father was one of the most incredible people in the world, still do. In that respect I was quite the freak. My peers seemed to consider their parents of a different species entirely. Mark always expected his parents to be angry, and as for Roger… _Is he nice to Roger?_

Mark paused a long time before responding with a single word: _Don't._

_Don't what?_

_Don't do that._

_Don't do what?_

_Leave it alone, Collins._

_Leave what alone?_

_You know._

_Do you?_

_Yeah, I know._

That was no great surprise. Mark and Roger were close, much closer and with a much stronger history than the three of us. I thought then with a sinking feeling that Mark and Roger were close because they had been through tough situations together. My first tough situation with Roger, and I disappointed him.

_How long?_

_Have I known? About 3 years, I think, since 8th grade._

Three years? For three years, Mark had known and done nothing? I did not say this: it was the last thing Mark needed. He was stressed, too. His family wasn't perfect--no family is. As I began to think on it, I realized how lucky I was. Mark was no longer allowed out without a chaperone. Roger's father beat him. Me? I loved my parents and they loved me. They treated me well. They were fair.

At break that day, I called my dad from the pay phones at school. He was at work, but between classes, so he took the call. "Dad, it's me--nothing's wrong, uh, before you ask. I'm just calling to tell you… I'm calling to say that I love you and I think you've done a really stellar job as a parent."

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. I just needed you to know that. Okay?"

"All right."

By third period, not only had there been no sign of Roger, Mark was missing, too. I did not go to fourth. Instead, I searched the campus. I sought Mark and Roger, and this more than anything made me realize how little I knew them. I was not searching for Mark and Roger. I was searching the campus. I had no idea where they were.

I found them behind the art building. Roger leaned against the wall, his head bowed. Mark held a chemically sanitized napkin against Roger's arm. He was muttering quietly.

"Guys?" I asked.

Roger looked up at me, then quickly looked down again. Mark sighed. "Maybe you should go," he said. Part of me agreed with him. Maybe I _should_ go, maybe I should make my apology when Roger is more ready to hear it. It could be a simple pattern of speech. I would say I was sorry for doing nothing, Roger would probably say he forgave me. But would we be friends again? Probably not.

When I joined them behind the building, Mark glared. "Roger--"

"Don't," he interrupted. "Just… please. Just leave me alone right now." He drew his arm back from Mark, who looked stricken at the request.

The napkin over Roger's arm slipped. The burn underneath was angry, fresh, a perfect round circle in his flesh. "Rog, we're not leaving you alone," I said. "Not while you're in danger."

"I'm not in any danger. Please."

I did not believe him. I knew what that burn was. It came from a cigarette, and Mark never smoked. I knew Roger had burned himself and, having seen the scars and scabs on his arms, I knew that he did more. I knew he did it often.

"You're a danger to yourself," I told him. Before Roger had a chance to reply, we heard the voice of an administrator. We crouched behind the Dumpsters until he had gone past. By that time Roger had pulled himself together. "Come on," I said. "Let's get out of here."

We walked for a while, not saying a word. Mark flinched every time a car passed. "We'll get caught," he worried. "We'll get caught and my parents are going to kill me. This is a really bad idea. We shouldn't do this. We'll be in trouble. It's going to rain."

Mark was right about one thing: it began to rain. "Come on," I said. I was not completely certain what I was doing. I had skipped school before. In junior high my friends and I would skip out early and spend hours in a comic book store, fancying ourselves thoroughly mature and roguish. By high school I had stopped reading comics, but continued to skip out on occasion, when the stress was too high or something had upset a friend or it was simply too perfect a day to be cooped up in school. We would lie on the grass in the park or sometimes take an entire day, ride out to the boardwalk and bike or blade down to the Santa Monica pier. It was a lot of fun, a lot of roller coasters and henna tattoos.

Mark and Roger had a different opinion of ditching. Mark was terrified. He knew it was wrong, but he did it anyway. I, being a teenager, had a healthy disrespect for authority, but had I seen purpose to the rule I would have encouraged Mark to head back. Instead I led him and Roger into the theater.

"Three for 'Sword in the Stone, please." I swapped cash for tickets and popcorn. We were the only people there, and we were not truly watching the cartoon. It was preceded by a kids' thing about Winnie the Pooh giving a birthday party for Eeyore, and I doubt any of us cared what happened in the end. It was nice to be out, though, just having a good time. Roger decided to toss pieces of popcorn in the air and try to catch them in his mouth. When Mark protested, Roger tried tossing pieces of popcorn into Mark's mouth.

Luckily the rain had let up, so we walked back to school after the film. By the time we arrived it was only five minutes until school let out. "Let's go," I said.

Mark shook his head. "If I'm home early, my parents will know I skipped."

"You're home at the same time every day?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Pretty much."

"What do you do?" I wondered.

Again Mark shrugged. "I do homework and read and help with stuff around the house."

I shook my head. No wonder Mark was so glum. He had no hobbies and no freedom to develop them. I had met his sister only a few times, but in that moment I hated her. Because of Cindy, because she was irresponsible and now talking about dropping out, Mark's life was miserable. I supposed his parents only wanted what was best for him, which to them meant a college education, but they had drastically overlooked the importance of his happiness.

I tugged at the sleeves of my Santa Cruz banana slug sweater. "You can come over some time," I told Mark. "If you need to get out, just come and crash."

"I can't," Mark said. "I'm not allowed to go anywhere without an adult. But thanks."

That just went to show what his parents knew. I was a latchkey kid, and waiting with my fingers crossed for college letters. "Well, take this, anyway." I gave him my _Communist Manifesto_. "At least it's something worth reading."

I felt better until laying down that night. I had yet to adjust to the cold of New York, so instead of sleeping beneath my quilt I used a heavy flannel sleeping bag. Before, I had needed it only on camping trips, when we went to the High Sierras, and whether it was truth of memory I always smelled pine needles and woodsmoke in the flannel. In New York, my mother _tsk_ed disapproval. "We can get you a warmer quilt, Thomas…"

I shook my head. "Actually, I like this."

"Okay. But if you change your mind, let me know."

That night, I was glad for the weight of the sleeping bag. It turned quickly leaden with my sleep, pressing me down, throwing my mind from this world into one of dreams. I welcomed the cast, eager to escape my final thought before falling: it was the knowledge that though I felt better about Roger's situation, nothing had changed. I had forgiven myself, and I had not earned that forgiveness.

I resolved to do better and dreamt of pulling the sword from the stone, then being knighted by Tigger who dubbed me "Sir See-Oh-Double luh-ins". I should have laughed, but didn't, because after the knighting ceremony I found Mark in a penguin tuxedo and Roger in chainmail, and I asked them if they had seen my lover but they only asked what she looked like. A frog jumped out of my throat and I couldn't speak.

By the time my alarm went off, I remembered nothing.

To be continued!

Hopefully soon, sorry this one took so long. Reviews would be loved!


	18. Mark: My SAT

Disclaimer: Jonathan Larson owns; I'm just borrowing the characters to express my teenage angst.

MARK

It was April. I sat at my desk in my room, head in hands, doing nothing. Not nothing: I was crying. I was sitting at my desk crying without tears. There had been no tears lately. I held my face in my hand and dug little fists into my hair.

It was wrong, wrong, everything I was wrong! I was a failure. I was an inexcusable, monumental failure. I was nothing but a dead branch on the family tree, a burning mark of shame. I was a shmuck.

I was also hungry and sore, but that was beside the point. My window stood open, letting in the cool air, breezes keeping my room fresh and clean. I didn't care. All I felt was misery. Usually in these situations I felt the need to leave, to go far, far away from here, but that night all I felt was pain and churning and sickness. I wanted to curl up in bed and sleep forever.

That is precisely the reason I sat awake at my desk, trying to write something. I wanted to curl up, warm and safe under the covers of my bed, but I did not want to throw my life away.

"Hey, Mark." I turned. There was Roger, climbing in through my window. He slid down and sat on the floor, completely ignorant of the fact that my heart was racing just to look at him, partially with terror. My father was angry enough already. If he caught Roger here, he would be apoplectic.

"What are you doing here?" I hissed. "My dad'll kill you!"

Roger ignored me completely, or perhaps it was his way of answering. "I can't take it anymore," he said. "How do you manage? I can't do it." He shook his head.

I sighed. Roger wasn't going anywhere. It was strange: two minutes ago I was sitting alone feeling sorry for myself, thinking how much better I would feel if my friends were around, now my best friend was here and all I could think of was making him leave. "Manage what?" I asked.

Roger raised his eyes. His hair had grown out lately, and he was peeking at me through scraggly fringe. "Everyone expecting things. Giving a crap about you. A month ago, no one cared that I wasn't applying to college."

"So?"

"So now they _do_," Roger said, as though I should have known. "Mark--I'm not made for college. People like _you_ go to college, not me. School isn't my scene. And now everyone keeps talking about it, saying what schools I might like, my parents are bragging to their friends about me."

I saw no difficulty. Roger's family was proud of him, so what was he doing in my room, sulking? "What happened, anyway?" I asked. "They never used to care."

"I know," he grumbled. "It's the stupid SAT. I had to go and get a fifteen-forty. What, I'm sure that pales in comparison to yours--"

"Pales?" I interrupted. "_Pales_?" Roger was looking at me, confused, his mouth hanging open as I rose. I didn't know what I was doing as I grabbed a pillow off my bed and began beating Roger with it. "Fuck you! FUCK YOU! Get out! What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Mark, stop it!" Roger tore the pillow out of my hands.

I didn't care. I hit him with my fists, open palms, arms, just attacking Roger, tearing into him. For a while, he allowed this. When I slapped him full across the face, though, Roger caught my wrist and said, "That's enough, Mark."

"It's not enough!" I was crying, snot and tears smearing my face. "It's not enough!" Roger pulled me against him and held me. He whispered soothing noises in my ear and petted my hair. "I hate you," I sobbed into his shoulder. "I hate you, I hate you. Get off me!" I tore away from him. Tears clung to my glasses, obscuring my vision, but I saw the hurt look on Roger's face. "Don't you dare touch me! I hate you? Do you hear me? I hate you!" I shouted as loudly as I could, tearing my throat to destroy Roger.

And I did. Roger turned around and left my room without another word. I saw his lips move before he turned and I know he wanted to say that he was sorry, but he didn't and that was just as well. I wonder if I could have forgiven him.

Roger had no way of knowing how horrible that night had been for me. He had no way of knowing that my father, upon seeing my score, sat me down and shouted until I could not stop crying. And then he shouted some more. _Don't think you're getting out of this one-- I won't fall for that so you can just stop it right now. Stop it, Marcus. Stop crying. Stop fucking crying!_

_Eli--!_

_No! Not this time. You hear that, Marcus? We are going to have this talk, so you may as well cut the crying right now and tell me what the hell I'm looking at._

_M-my S-SAt-t-t-T score. _Smack.

_You think this is some kind of game, Marcus? You think you've got your whole damn life to run around with your friends-- dammit, Marcus, you stop crying now or so help me! Now I don't think we're being unreasonable here. But how could you do this to me, Marcus? Huh? I've always tried to do what's best for you, but now-- now, when you know what's going on with your sister, all you had to do was your best, Marcus. Is this your best? Well? Is it?_

_I… I tried…_

_That's it. Get up. GET UP, Marcus._

200 math.

200 verbal.

"I don't know what happened," I told Collins the following day. We were in the library, shelving books. Roger was at the desk. He and I had not spoken all day. "I just… couldn't do it."

"Relax, man," Collins told me. "That's totally normal."

No one had said any such thing about my score. It had been pathetic, shameful, unacceptable. My response to the test had been childish, foolish, weak. It had not been all right. "But I have a 400! I can't go _anywhere_ on that!"

Collins shrugged. "You'll retake the test. It's not the end of the world, Mark. You just got scared. People get scared, you know. Hey… your dad ground you?"

I shook my head. "No. Actually he gave me a book this morning." In my family, that was huge. A person was given _nothing_ without reason. We did not believe in just-because gifts. At birthdays or holidays, for bringing home straight-A report cards, gifts were logical. For no reason… "He feels bad, I guess," I said.

"For shouting at you?"

"Um… no. For spanking me."

"Jesus!"

I was allowed over to Collins' house that Saturday. It was like no place else I had ever been. In my parents' home and Roger's, everything had its place. Everything was tidy, kept tidy, no question. My parents' home was a quiet place with too many words left unsaid to take a deep enough breath. No one mentioned my pregnant sister, who continued as though nothing had happened. Would she finish the school year? Graduate? Have the baby? I didn't know.

Roger might play music while his parents were out, but when they were home, the same silence descended. There were no raucous noises, except during family gatherings, and even then it was only at the 'party' times. Even then you might hear someone crying, might hear Mr. Davis shouting.

Officially, I had been banned from the Davis house in the eighth grade, not by my parents but by Mr. Davis. It was the night my grandfather died. Roger had put me on his bed and pulled off my shoes and socks before lying down next to me. I wanted to curl against him, but I didn't. Roger hugged me. He petted me and listened to what I needed to say. And when I was through, when I was nearly asleep, Mr. Davis came in.

It was years ago, before I saw Roger burn himself, when I thought he was healthy.

_"Stay the hell away from my son, faggot!"_ It was the first time anyone called me that, and it was well before I even considered questioning my sexuality. The name hurt. It hurt me more than seeing Roger jerked around like a rag doll, and I have never forgiven myself.

Collins' place wasn't like that. The first thing his dad said was, "So you're Mark!" and he shook my hand. "I've heard a lot about you from Tom. It's nice to finally meet you." He was saying things a person ought to say, things usually rote that sounded so sincere from him.

Collins pulled me into the kitchen. "Are you hungry?" he asked. "I'm starved." He and Roger had the same insane metabolism. I told him so, and he grinned at me. "Hey, I'm six-one and I'm still growing." He crushed a cookie into a glass of milk.

"My appetite just died."

Collins stuck out his tongue at me.

We went to his bedroom to hang out, and Collins and his dad would just shout to one another throughout the house: "Thomas, have you seen the matches?"

Collins paused, then called back, "Beatles tin on the third shelf!" Neither sounded annoyed or frustrated. It was incredible. My father would have been hysterical because he _needed_ the matches and couldn't find them. Roger's would have blamed someone. Collins' dad didn't care. He just wanted information. And they shouted without sounding furious with one another.

I was only meant to stay until about eight-thirty, but around seven it got dark and the rain began to pour. Collins and I were still in his room, talking, not doing much. I was sitting cross-legged on his bed, watching the darkness and lightning out the window. "You're thinking about Roger, aren't you?" Collins asked.

I nodded. I had been. "Roger's my best friend. I mean… he was my only friend until you moved here. I just feel alone without him."

"I applied to college," Collins blurted.

I squinted. "What?" It was not that I didn't understand, but it seemed so irrelevant.

"I'm sorry. I just think you should know that. When I moved here, I was unhappy and alone, and I applied to a bunch of colleges just to get out."

Later it would occur to me to wonder why I hadn't been a good enough friend, why he needed to escape me and Roger, even though I knew. Collins wanted to escape Scarsdale, not us. "But… you have me and Roger now… so you can stay, right?"

"Mark, if they accept me…"

I was already near tears when we heard a high-pitched plea from downstairs: "Please, I need to talk to Thomas…" Then there was a pounding sound of footsteps up the stairs, in the corridor, and then nothing, a pause. Collins' visitor had stopped outside his bedroom door. He (or she) was crying. Collins and I glanced at one another. I certainly wasn't about to open that door.

When no knock or cry came after nearly one full minute, Collins stood and opened the door.

"Holy shit."

It was Roger-- Roger, standing in the doorway wearing torn jeans and a T-shirt on a cold night, soaking wet and trembling violently. His head was bleeding. So was one of his arms. He was crying horribly, spit collecting in his mouth and pouring out over his chin, tears streaking across his cheeks.

"I'm sorry," he told the floor, staunchly refusing to look at us. "I'm sorry."

TO BE CONTINUED!

Muhaha!

Please review? I would love to hear what you think.


	19. Collins: Nothing

Disclaimer: They're Jonathan's. I'm just playing with them.

This chapter is dedicated to Mel.

COLLINS

When Roger saw Mark, he stepped away. "Maybe I should go--"

"No!" I didn't think. For once, instinct won over thought. I stepped forward and grabbed his arm. He wasn't leaving. I knew that. Whatever had happened, whoever had done his to Roger, he needed help. He needed warm, dry clothes, a safe place to sleep, more than anything he needed someone. In the months since moving to Scarsdale, I had felt untouched. I left good friends behind in Los Angeles, I left my boyfriend. With Mark and Roger, I hugged them as much as I could without letting on that I was gay, and it wasn't nearly enough.

A few months untouched had grown into a knot in my gut. What had a lifetime of it done to Roger? I couldn't send him back to that. He wouldn't survive, and I would never forgive myself.

He howled, then fell silent, his face turned away from me. He was sobbing and trembling, and trying not to do either. "What happened, Roger?" I shook his arm gently as I asked. He whimpered. "Roger... stay. Okay? Stay here." In my room, Mark was sitting on the bed, staring. "Mark, come on."

I led Roger into the bathroom. Mark followed us. "Here. Roger, sit down." He sat on the edge of the bathtub. I took my hand away from his arm and wiped it on my jeans, and that was when I noticed that it was not water dampening my palm.

For a moment all I could do was stare. Dark red streaks crossed my palm, smears of blood. The sleeve of Roger's shirt was soaked, too. "Christ, Roger." He covered his face with his hand. It was an act of shame. "I'm sorry," I told him. Mark was standing by the door, still staring. "I'm sorry, Roger. I didn't realize." I peeled away his sleeve. Something was jammed into his arm. Blood seeped out around it. "Jesus." I needed to talk. I needed to fill the room with some sound other than Roger's muffled sobs. "I'll take this out for you, okay, Roger? Hold still." I ran my fingers along his arm, first the unbroken skin, as for a bee sting, until my fingers found his blood and the thing releasing it. I tugged.

"Mmf!"

"It's out," I told Roger. "It's okay, it's clear." I tossed the thing into the sink and pressed a towel to his arm. "I'll find a Band-Aid... you'll be okay." I would need a towel for his head, too, I reminded myself; Roger was bleeding from somewhere on his forehead. I pressed a second towel to the general area.

"His back."

I turned. Mark had finally spoken. "What?" I asked.

"Roger's back," Mark said. Roger pressed his face against the counter, his entire body shaken with sobs. "Look at his back, Thomas."

"Don't." Roger stood. "I'm sorry. I'm gonna go--"

I caught him again, this time by the wrist. "No, you're not," I said. "You're not going anywhere. Let me see your back."

"There's nothing wrong, I'm sorry I bothered you--"

"Roger." It was Mark. "Please." His eyes were shimmering. A part of me wanted to tell him, _Don't. I can't take care of you both right now. You can't break down, Mark, you just can't._ But that's a terrible thing to say, so I let him finish. He seemed to realize what he was doing then, to remember that the last time he spoke to Roger had hit him and claimed to hate him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. Please stay here, Roger."

Roger nodded.

"Good." I pressed the towel against Roger's arm once more. "Stay here with Mark, okay? I'll find some dry clothes that'll fit you."

Dad found me in my room. I paused, my hands in a drawer, and realized that he had no idea what was happening. A stranger had come into his house in the middle of the night, begging for help. I waited. What could I say? What could possibly explain this?

"I called your mom," he said. "She's on her way."

I nodded. "Thank you," I said.

Dad began to say something, then shook his head. "Go on," he said.

"Don't you want to know what's going on?"

He gave me a strange look. "Of course," he said. Then he left me alone.

In the bathroom, Mark and Roger were sitting together on the floor. It was the strangest thing: they looked like children. Their heads were bowed, and Roger seemed tossed like a doll. There was nothing to them but innocence and confusion. And they did not touch. That was the strangest thing, to me.

"Roger." He looked up. I knelt. "These should fit you. Um... do you want to shower or... Roger, are you okay?" He had not stopped crying. I felt awkward. What could I do? What had happened to him? He nodded. "Listen... my mom is coming over. She's a nurse. She'll take care of you, okay? You'll be fine, Roger." I didn't believe that, and neither did he.

"Your parents don't live together?" Mark asked.

I wrinkled my nose at the thought. My parents living together… They had a great relationship, my parents. They loved each other. They just didn't love each other in that way, and sometimes living together all the time was too much. There were fights, never violent but too tense, and it was obvious to all of us that they needed a break. That turned into a divorce and that was the end of it. They remained great friends. "No way. They split up when I was in like the third grade. I never told you that?" Mark and Roger shook their heads. I shrugged. "Never really seemed important."

We waited until my mother arrived. We talked, but we didn't really say anything, just noise to fill the gaps. Roger kept his soaking clothes on, which was good. One of the first things my mother said when she saw him was, "Oh my G-d in heaven, what happened to you, baby?" Mark and I didn't think to leave as she cut off his shirt with scissors. Earlier, I had pulled a piece of plexiglass out of his arm. There were at least two dozen more pieces jammed into his back.

"Thomas, come here," Mom instructed. "Do exactly what I tell you." I nodded.

The front of Roger's shirt fell away, and the sleeves. The back was pinned. He gripped the edge of the sink as my mother set out a brown bottle of peroxide and tweezers. "This will hurt," she warned Roger, whose tears were dripping slowly down his face. "But something tells me you can handle the pain."

He groaned when she pulled out the first piece of glass. She began with the lowest incision she could find and yanked the shard out with the tweezers. Roger grunted through clenched teeth and jolted. "Can't believe all this rain," Mom said as she took out the next piece of plexiglass. Roger made a tiny noise. Mark stood beside him, one hand over Roger's. "It's great weather." Roger trembled. He was more than enduring pain as Mom's collection of plexiglass shards increased. He was fighting back sobs as hot tears streaked down his face. Mom continued to chat about nothing important as she cleared Roger's back of plexiglass pieces.

The last scrap of his T-shirt fluttered to the floor. I hissed at the sight of Roger's back. It was smeared with blood, many of the cuts still oozing. Mom rinsed it with water. Roger shook as she did, grunting against the pain. I might have heard a muttered exclamation, but it was very quiet. "I'm going to swab your back." Mom took a pack of gauze and wet it down with peroxide. "This will hurt, but it will keep away infections. Thomas, I need you to always have one of these ready for me. Let's do this as quick as possible, hm?"

"Yes, Mom."

It was the first time I had seen Roger topless, first time I had seen him in short sleeves, and I struggled not to stare at the maze of dark scars slashed into his left arm. I winced. There were wounds healed dark or light, burns in perfect circles, one cut still scabbed over, but only one. _How long?_ I wondered. _And why? Why, Roger?_

She brought the first swatch across the top of Roger's back. He moaned. His chest heaved and he squeezed his eyes shut. Mark tightened his grip on Roger's wrist. I readied another swab for my mom. It was as she wiped a third alcohol-soaked patch across Roger's back that he screamed. His muscles were so tightly wound, just opening his mouth required a tremendous effort.

The shout lasted only half a second, and it sounded as though Roger was trying to vomit a lung. Mark looked at me, eyes wet, begging. I froze. Mom stroked Roger's hair. "Nearly finished," she promised. "Thomas." It was probably the sharpest tone she had ever taken with me. I returned to my task. In under a minute, Roger's back had been thoroughly dampened with alcohol. "All I can think," she said, "is to either air-dry this of use the hair dryer."

"We don't have a hair dryer," I said.

"Okay. You're nearly dry, Roger, so I'll start bandaging these. Thomas--" I already had the Band-Aids ready. Mom started covering Roger's cuts with them. Once she had finished, she told Roger, "I'd like to have a look at you, just to be certain you're not hurt. You can have privacy for that."

Roger nodded. "Yes," he said. "Please."

Mom turned to me. "That means you, Tommy. Take Mark downstairs, talk to your dad."

"Come on, Mark." Mark shook his head. "It's okay."

"Go," Roger croaked. His voice was ragged and cold, and it cut Mark deep into his bones, but Mark came out of the bathroom and headed downstairs with me.

Dad was in the kitchen, and it was the strangest thing: he was standing there with the oven on, of all things baking in the midst of this drama. Roger's sobs hung like ghosts in the air, and Dad cooked. It brought me back to the real world. Rain was pouring outside. "So. That's Roger, is it?" Dad asked.

I nodded. "That's him."

"I hope he's okay."

"We do, too."

And that was the end of that. Dad turned to Mark. "It's seven o'clock, Mark. Your parents are coming to pick you up in half an hour. You're welcome to stay here, if you want. I'll call your parents and tell them it's fine."

Mark nodded his head. "I really would like to stay," he said.

"Okay." Dad picked up the telephone, then turned back to us and said, "By the way, there's pizza whenever you're hungry." As he dialed the Cohens' home, Mark and I agreed not to eat until Roger was with us. Suddenly, the fact that I had skipped lunch came back to kick me hard in the gut. I sat at the table. Mark sat opposite me. "Hello, Mr. Cohen? This is John Collins, Thomas's father. No, Mark's fine-- no, he hasn't done anything wrong. Please let me finish, Mr. Cohen." Mark's chin sank. I knew it wasn't the time, but I smiled, not because my friend felt humiliated but because the man humiliating him was being given a talk in my father's teacher voice. "Mr. Cohen, there's been an accident involving the boys' friend, Roger Davis-- I only know of one Roger Davis so I assume that's him. All the boys are upset, they'd like to stay together tonight. It's fine if they stay here."

"They won't like it," Mark muttered, shaking his head.

He was right. A moment later, Dad said, "I know it isn't for me to question that, Mr. Cohen, but Mark's very upset--"

Mark shook his head. He pushed himself away from the table and walked over to my dad. "May I speak with him, please?" he asked

Dad looked puzzled, but he handed over the phone. Mark scowled at the thought of his father as he said, "Dad, I'm staying here. No, I am not imposing. Because Mr. Collins offered, that's why!" Frustrated, he answered a question I could not hear, "Because I care about him, Dad! Because whether you like him or not, Roger's my friend and he's always taken care of me and I'm not leaving him alone. Yes, he's gonna be with the Collinses but..." He faced the wall and covered his face with a hand. "'The stranger that dwelleth with you shall be unto you as one born among you, and thou shalt **love** him as thyself; for ye were strangers in the land of Egypt'," he muttered through clenched teeth. "The Torah teaches us, repeatedly, that we should care for strangers, for our neighbors. Haftorah, stop to help the man whose donkey has fallen. And these are strangers. Roger's taken care of me, no questions asked, since I was eleven years old. Why do you think my glasses aren't broken and I'm passing math and I haven't killed myself?" he shrieked. "It's because of him, okay? If the Torah isn't proof enough, how about your son? Trust me, for once, Dad. Well I'm not Cindy! Stop punishing me for that. I want..." And suddenly the fire went out of him. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry, sir. I'm sorry, Daddy." He turned to my dad. "He wants to talk to you," he muttered.

Dad took the telephone into the next room, which is how we noticed Roger standing in the doorway. "Hey," I told him.

"Hey," he said. To Mark, "Don't let that asshole push you around."

Mark nodded and sniffled.

"Let's eat."

So that's what we did. We sat down and ate pizza. After a few minutes, it was so strange, despite everything, despite the gauze patch on Roger's forehead and the bruises on his face and wrists (everything else was covered), we were laughing. We were talking about school and homework and we were laughing.

Dad smiled at us when he returned to the kitchen. "Mark, your parents don't mind if you stay here tonight. But if it's all right with you, I'd like a word later." Mark nodded. "And, Roger, I am going to have to ask you also to tell me or Thomas's mother what happened--"

"I told her," Roger interrupted. "Sorry," he added, realizing. "I didn't… I already said," he murmured.

Dad nodded. "All right, then. And I'd like you to call your parents." At that, Roger sat upright. I grabbed his hand, knowing what he was thinking and determined not to let him run away again. "They're probably worried." Roger shook his head. Dad gave him a disappointed look; I already knew it would do no good. Roger has never gotten along with fathers. "All right. Well then I am going to call, just to let them know that you're safe."

Roger said nothing.

The three of us were heading up to my room, but Dad held me back. "Thomas." And I stopped. So did Mark and Roger. They watched the two of us for a split second, then I realized what was going on. They were afraid. They were afraid my father was going to do what Roger's dad would. I told them it was fine, and they had the strangest looks of reluctance as I glared them out of the room.

Dad shook his head. "I should have known, Thomas."

"What?"

"Only you could find the two nicest boys in Scarsdale in the most need of help," he said. Then he asked a question I never expected him to ask me: "Are you happy?" I answered him with a look more of shock than anything else. "You don't tell me anything, Tom. I know you're growing up, and G-d knows you're doing a fine job of it, but--"

"John." My mother strode into the room. She was a small woman, petite even, but she commanded attention. "We need to make a decision," she said, "right now. If he stays here--" there was no question as to who 'he' was "--you need to call the police."

Dad glanced at me. The "growing up" part of his speech was obviously very much over. "Thomas, go upstairs with your friends, please."

I wanted to stay. I wanted more than anything to _know_, but there was nothing they knew that Roger didn't, at least about the events of that night, and he probably needed me much more than they did. I headed upstairs.

Roger was sitting on the edge of my bed, pressed against the wall. He had his knees drawn up to his chest and was staring at nothing. Mark sat nearby, silent.

"Hey, Rog." I sat beside him. He was shaking. Whatever did that to his back had traumatized him fairly severely. "You're okay now," I promised him. I pulled him against me. Hugging someone with those massive injuries may not be the brightest idea, but Roger seemed not to mind. He clutched my arm.

"Mark?" he asked.

"Hey, Roger." Mark sat on his other side, and Roger hugged him. Sometime during the night we managed to huddle under the quilt, and we must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I remember is waking up. It was dark, still nighttime.

Loud voices woke me. Roger was cradled against my chest, sleeping surprisingly peacefully. Mark stood by the door, his glasses occasionally giving off an eerie flash of reflected light. He was listening to the parents, but he was watching me.

I pulled away from Roger. He muttered displeasure; I covered him with the quilt and tiptoed over to Mark. "Come on," I whispered.

We stood at the top of the stairs, able to hear the parents clearly although we could not see them. "I want my son," Roger's father said, furious.

"I understand that, Mr. Davis; Roger is upstairs. But for his sake, calm down. He's had a rough night--"

"Do you know what that little shit did my car?" Something strange happened to his voice as he said the word "that". The "th" sound blurred to more of a z.

"Mr. Davis--"

"_My son_--"

"Is your concern," my mother interrupted. It was the first time I had heard her voice in the discussion, and I was more than a little surprised that she was still present. I was not bothered by her presence, merely surprised that she should no have gone back to her apartment. "We understand that, Mr. Davis, and _our_ son is our concern, and since his parents have trusted him to our care tonight, so is the Cohen boy. And I will not have you exposing them to language like that in my house."

I grinned. Trust Mom to put a man in his place. It took a few moments for Mr. Davis to find his tongue, and when he did, it was to say, "I'll speak as I please--"

"Not in this house." I could not stop grinning. Aw, Mom...

Dad tried reason: "Mr. Davis, Roger is safe. He's asleep. We will bring him home the moment he wakes tomorrow morning, but for now he's very frightened. I see no benefit to removing him from a safe environment--"

"Are you saying my home isn't safe? There's no place better for a boy than with his father-- you have a son. You should understand. All I want is to bring my boy home, where he'll be safe."

I clutched the banister and shook my head. _No. Roger can't go back there, he can't go back to that._ Mr. Davis's argument sounded reasonable. I hoped my parents would not be fooled. Surely they wouldn't. They were smart people, both of them very intelligent and clever-- how else would they produce me? Surely they saw through his loving demeanor.

A floorboard creaked. Mark and I turned; Roger had emerged from my bedroom, clutching the cuffs of the shirt I had lent him. His eyes were wide and saw neither of us. He approached the stairs and stopped dead, listening to my parents explain that he was safe, but asleep, and moving him now could be very emotionally damaging. They were b.s.ing and it was not working, but I loved very deeply the fact that they tried.

"He is my son!"

Roger whimpered. I stood behind him and wrapped my arms across his chest. No one was taking Roger away. I knew that. He felt so small, frail. He was not the Roger I knew.

"I refuse to leave him here with--with complete strangers--"

"Roger chose to come here--"

"--and with that Cohen faggot--"

Mark sighed. Roger hung his head. "Don't," I told him. "Don't apologize for him. You're a good person, Roger." And he was. Even without knowing that there was a homosexual standing beside him, he winced at the slur. To me, that mattered hugely because he knew the term was offensive and he openly owned that conviction.

Downstairs, there was the sound of a slap. "Get your bigotry out of my house!" Mom's tone left no question.

I heard angry footsteps headed towards the door, then a pause and a shout of, "Roger, you'll get your ass down here if you know what's good for you. Roger!" I tightened my grip. Roger raised his hands to cover mine. I clutched his fingers. "Roger--!"

"Out!"

The door opened and slammed shut. My parents spoke to one another quietly, then Dad called, "Go back to bed, boys."

"Come on, Roger."

Mark approached slowly. He stood on tiptoe and kissed Roger's cheek. "We'll take care of you," he promised.

My bed was not nearly big enough for the three of us lying down, but curled together we had enough room. Mark and I kept Roger between us. He thanked us repeatedly and he began to cry softly. He had hidden his face against my shoulder when Dad opened the door. "Thomas?" he asked. "Would you come downstairs for a moment, please?"

I did something then I never expected to do, ever, in my life: I looked to Roger for instruction. "I'm okay," he promised, pushing away tears. So I went downstairs to speak with my parents.

Dad was sitting at the table with a mug of tea. Mom was standing at the counter, shaking her head, arms crossed over her chest. "You did very well tonight, Thomas." Somehow it did not sound like praise. "What Mr. Davis said--"

"We can't let Roger go back to him," I said.

As though I had not spoken, Dad said, "Your mother and I... have always tried to keep that word and words like it out of our homes and away from you."

I shook my head. "I don't care. I appreciate that." I truly did, but at the moment I could think only of what would happen tomorrow if Roger went back to his father's house. "I really do, I've always felt safe at home, but Roger hasn't. He can't go back."

Dad sighed. "Right now... there's nothing we can do," he said. "Roger can stay here tonight. You know that your friends are always welcome. But tomorrow, he needs to go home to his father."

"He beats him!" That was Roger's secret. Even Roger himself had not made peace with it; he would never ask for help because he believed he was being treated as he deserved. I had no right to tell that to anyone, even to protect him, even my own parents who would never misuse the knowledge. But it was done, and since the card was laid I played it to my advantage. "He beats Roger all the time. He's always... always coming to school with these bruises and everyone thinks it's from fighting, but it isn't. His father hurts him and hits him and he says horrible things to him."

My parents looked at one another. They were sad, so sad, resigned. "We know that, Thomas," Mom said.

"There's nothing we can do," Dad told me.

"_Nothing? _That's the last thing we can do! How can you say that? How can you have raised me to do what's right and stand by and do nothing?"

"Because there is nothing we can do," Mom retorted shortly. "You've seen that Roger does worse to himself. All those scars come from his own hand. And he fights, like you said. Now all this may be because his father abuses him but it condemns him quite thoroughly. No one will believe him. We do," she added, before I lost my mind again, "but Thomas... unless there is some corroboration, from the mother or the older siblings... and she won't. Audrey won't. She's endured this for year, she battles with it, and her answer is flight. She's taking a drug cocktail that'll probably fry her before twenty years are up. Thomas, within the law--"

Mom moved to hug me, but I pulled away. "Fuck the law!" I shouted, and that was when I learned that I was crying. Gobs of spit clung to my teeth, muffling my words. "Fuck the law if it protects people like him! I don't care! There has to be something!"

They traded worried glances. They had seen me like this before. They had seen me punch holes in walls, but I had never lost control in front of anyone but them, ever. Anyone else would be terrified. I knew that, that was why I controlled it in public, but this… this was too much.

I sat down at the table, rested my head on my arms and cried. It was the best I could give myself. Mom sat next to me and rubbed my back. Dad held my hand. And when I was finally sober again, when my eyes were red and my throat hurt, I asked, "What happened to Roger tonight?"

Mom sighed. "He tried to run away. His dad started beating him with a belt and Roger decided that that was it, that he had had enough, and he was going to leave. He took the car and drove it a few blocks, then he… he had an accident. He retrieved his guitar and he came here."

"What happened?" I asked again.

"He turned the car over. Tomorrow he'll need to make a statement to the police and he should be taken to the hospital for a check-up. He doesn't have a concussion and his wounds are bandaged, but it's best if a professional on office hours attests to that."

"Turn a car over," I repeated, confused.

Mom nodded. "Flipped it right over, Thomas. He hit another car, his car spun… Roger is lucky to be alive."

I returned to my bedroom and settled under the covers with my friends. For a few moments it was nothing but heat and breath and a faint smell of blood, Mark wheezing and Roger occasionally whimpering, turning to find the safest place. Then I fell asleep.

One more thing happened before the next day. It was night, but the sky was giving enough light to read by. Roger had shaken me awake. "Can I borrow some money?" he asked.

"Huh? For what?" A circuit was missing from my brain.

He showed me a letter. "For my sister. Telling her what to do if he ever starts on her. I'll pay you back as soon as I can. I just need bus fare from here to Jersey. Grandma Morris, my mom's mom, she lives there. If she needs somewhere safe, Sarah can go there."

I gave him ten dollars.

TO BE CONTINUED!

Whoo. Longest chapter yet! I hope everyone enjoyed the angst and drama. Reviews would be AWESOME!

Concerning tests: Believe me, I've taken my share (SAT, ACT plus writing, SAT IIs-- 5 so far-- the CAHSEE, plus APs and the annual tests) so I know that pain. My SAT score was... let's just say higher than Mark's but lower than Roger's, comparative to the 2400 scale.


	20. Mark: It's Over

**Disclaimer:** Jonathan Larson created RENT and it's probably now "owned" by a film studio

MARK

And then, nothing. Roger was grounded until the Messiah came-- not his father's words, obviously-- but nothing more. I spent my Sunday afternoon and evening afraid that he had been beaten to death, once it was clear I would not be.

Tom's dad wanted to talk about my little "suicide problems"-- what I called them, not him-- and I told him the truth. "Sometimes I just get really overwhelmed with shit… grades, that's all my parents care about, and my sister, she got pregnant and they're practically punishing _me_, and there's nothing I can do for Roger…" He told me that grades aren't everything, my parents loved me and I had done Roger a great deal by being his friend, but he said the words so well that I believed him.

Dad was calm, but his muscles too tight. The silence in the car terrified me as he drove me home. We were stopped at a red light when he turned to me and said, "Mark… you know we love you, don't you, buddy?"

"Yeah, Dad." What else could I say? No, you only love me when you have something to be proud of. It was true, but it would hurt him.

"We, uh… your mom and I… are a little worried here, son. You're not entirely happy, are you?"

No. My best friend is being beaten, I'll never get into college because I'm barely passing math and oh, yeah, _you don't love me_. "No one's _entirely_ happy."

Then school, and everything was normal. On Monday morning Roger hadn't a new bruise on him, and a week later we learned that our Drama class would be putting on a new short play.

Roger and I were assigned our parts on Tuesday: he played my father. _Well, that won't be a little awkward._ We were in tons of scenes together. "Is that okay for you guys?" Trask asked. "'Cause, you know, you'll have to hug and stuff, and I don't want you to think that's gay."

Roger shrugged. "It's fine," he said. I nodded.

And so there we were, onstage under bright lights, and Roger kept touching me. He would rub my shoulder, muss my hair, all those family gestures, and I bit my lip, wishing my dick didn't move every time Roger came close enough for me to smell his sweat. On this particular day, we were rehearsing a scene near the beginning of the play, morning at home for our characters.

Roger walked onstage. "'Morning, kiddo," he said to me, his line, then mimed something. I didn't move, just continued slouching and rolling my eyes. "Hey, better move, you've only got ten minutes before school. Mikey?" I didn't say anything. "Well, have a good day," Roger said, before heading offstage.

"Okay, Ben, what are you doing?" Trask asked. Roger was Ben. I was Michael.

"Pouring myself some coffee and going to work," Roger answered.

"And when you're talking to Mikey, what do you want to tell him? Not the words, but what are you actually saying? What do you want?"

"I… want him to talk to me, I guess," Roger said. He and his dad were not exactly close, so he preferred not to identify too strongly with Ben. "Like notice me?"

"Okay, so how are you going to do that? If you wanted Mark to notice you, what would you do?"

"Probably tap him."

"Okay, so use that. He's your son. Tap his shoulder, maybe give him a little smack--you know, like your dad smacks your shoulder and says something like, 'Go get 'em, tiger'?"

Roger laughed. "My dad doesn't say that," he said.

"Yeah, well, pretend. Go. Start over."

Roger walked offstage, then came onstage as Ben.

"'Morning, kiddo," he said, and as he was told, he smacked me. Well, not exactly as he was told. Roger was supposed to kind of pat my shoulder. Instead, he leaned down as he passed and gave me a hard smack on the behind. The sound resonated throughout the auditorium. I jumped, went rigid, and blushed. I was getting a hard-on, right there in front of the entire drama class.

The teacher found this hilarious, as did most of the class. "Okay, okay, okay," he said. "Cohen, you did your scene already, you can go." As I fled into the wings, I heard him telling Roger, "I said smack his arm, not his ass. You're not spanking him. In fact, you know what, that's a new class rule. Okay? There will be no spanking in this class." The class laughed. "Davis, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but let's think about other people's feelings and why incest is wrong, okay? Now go tell Cohen you're sorry."

I was in the wings. It's actually a great place to be: everything from the stage echoes, but nothing from the wings reaches out. Unfortunately, it's a terrible place to hide from the best friend who just made you spray your shorts. I fled down the stairs into the costumes room.

"Mark?" Roger called. I could see him, in a memory of something I never saw, leaning over the railing, calling down. "Mark?" _Give up, Rog. Give up,_ I urged, but I heard his footsteps coming down the stairs. _Shit. Hide._

Theoretically, in a room full of costumes, how hard can it be to hide? I climbed into one of the dress cabinets. He wouldn't think to look there. Roger's got no dedication. He would give up before he found me.

"Marcus! Shit." I heard him grumble, then the sound of a trolley being wheeled. Half of me wanted to jump out of the cabinet just to see what the hell Roger was up to. "Mark! Come on out! Mark! I'm sorry! Fine…"

When Roger grumbled past me, I couldn't believe my luck, but he only peeked into the bathroom before emerging again. "Cohen, where are you?" He pulled open the cabinet nearest him. _Shit._ My cabinet was next. Roger yanked it open, took one look at me, and tried hard not to smile. "Hey," he said. "Coming out of the closet?"

"Oh, fuck off, Rog," I told him, shaking my head.

"Hey, man. I came to apologize."

"I won't tell. Just leave me alone."

Roger sighed. I hadn't expected this: he climbed into the closet, sitting opposite me, his legs folded against his chest so that our toes overlapped. He pulled the door closed. "Mark, I was just playing. I'm sorry. I know I could've been a lot nicer, since I know."

My head snapped up. "You know what?"

"How you felt," Roger said. "About me."

"Yeah, well." _Oh, shit._ I was not crying. Not crying, that was… this wasn't big enough to cry over. What the hell, an erection in front of 30 people not big enough to cry over? Roger would make some comment about my penis being too small. I wish he didn't talk about that, things like that. It gets me hard. "Now I've got no best friend and the entire school knows that I'm a… I'm a…"

"You're a _what_, Mark?" Roger demanded. He reached out for my hand, but I pulled it away.

"A fag," I snapped. "I'm a fag, Roger, okay? So now you don't have to beat the shit outta anyone who says it. Hell, you can join in. Don't want to be dating a fag, do you? Not queer, are you, Davis?"

I've never before heard myself so caustic. Neither had Roger, and his face had fallen like a kicked puppy's. "What if I am?" he asked.

"What?" I asked, bewildered. "Oh, I get it. The teasing. Okay. Go."

"No, dipwad." Roger grabbed my arms and yanked, so that I fell forward into his lap. "What if I am queer? Huh? What if I do want to date a fag?" He pulled my head near to his--I hadn't the presence of mind to do anything but mumble--and kissed my lips. When he pulled away, he asked, "No one kicks the shit out of Roger Davis's boyfriend." He kissed me again. "You want to fight a queer, fight me. Open your mouth, Mark." Not thinking, I did. Roger kissed me again, this time sticking his tongue into my mouth and doing things… let's just say I had never been kissed that way before.

I moaned. "Roger…" I was already hard. How far was he going to push this? "I…" I whimpered, suddenly in pain.

"What?" Roger asked. He pulled away. "What is it?"

"Zipper," I admitted.

"Aw, fuck." And the next thing I knew Roger had his hand down the front of my pants and was essentially finger-combing my embarrassingly sparse pubic hair. Okay, a part of me knew that I should object, but a larger part of me knew that I liked what Roger was doing, that if he kept going I was going to… going to… going to…

scream.

---

Roger and I sat side-by-side in the counseling office, receiving a lecture on "appropriate on-campus conduct." Roger did his best to protect me: "It's not Mark's fault," he said, "any of it. I came on to him. I seduced him, Mr. Frank, he never would have thought of this on his own."

"Be quiet, Davis."

I wondered… was Roger serious? Were we an item? Would he do that again? I hoped he would. My eyes were fixed on my knees, but a smile and a blush crept onto my face. My boyfriend was defending me. My boyfriend stood up for me. He was perfect, perfect, perfect and he was mine!

Ms. Ariata arrived-- "Oh, Roger…"-- and Mr. Thomas shortly after. The meeting was fairly short. "While we are in no way, uh, while we fully support that choice of lifestyle-- you're gay and that's okay-- boys. Not on campus. There's a time and place for everything and sixth period drama isn't it." Roger held my hand under the table. "Now we are not going to expel you or… even suspend you. We'll let you off with a warning-- there will be no sexual interactions, touching, sodomy, or any other sort, on this campus."

I glanced at Roger and sighed in relief. Nothing but a warning! We couldn't have been more lucky.

"… and, your parents have been notified. They are coming to pick you up."

"My mom?" Roger asked.

Mr. Frank checked his notepad. "Uh… nope, looks like both of your fathers."

That night, I wondered how Roger was doing. My parents dealt surprisingly well with the revelation that their son was gay and practically sexually active. Dad gave me a box of condoms-- "I don't like what you're doing, son, but if you have to do it, do it safely."-- and an uncomfortable talk. Mom, apparently thinking I would be upset over this, made lasagna for dinner.

"Oh, man, this stuff tastes like plastic," Cindy whined, poking at her meal.

"Cindy!" Mom hissed, giving me a meaningful glance. I was not particularly hungry, not since being torn away from Roger, leaving him to who-knew-what at his father's hands, but I forced myself to eat.

The telephone call came near midnight. I was sitting awake, my head propped up on my fist, struggling to stay awake and comprehend my math homework. It was always so easy with Collins explaining each step of the equation, but the problems twisted and lied with him gone.

I jumped when the telephone rang. Who was calling at this time of night? I shook my head. Who _else_? And if I didn't answer it my parents would. Suddenly my heart was racing. I snatched up the receiver. "Hello?"

"Mark?"

I clutched the receiver with both hands. "Roger?"

"Yeah. Listen, I…"

He was crying. "Roger, it's okay. Come over. Come over here, you can stay here a while." Somewhere he can't hurt you. My parents would probably ground me or possibly strangle me if I asked, but I knew that if I had the living proof-- if I had Roger with fresh bruises, they would let him stay.

"It's too late, Mark. I'm already gone."

"No!" All those little scars on his arms, the burns and the cuts I treated without a word, he was going to do it again. He was not going to hurt himself, he was going to kill himself, and I wasn't there to stop him. "No, you're not gone, Roger, you're okay. You'll be okay. I promise. Now please--"

"Mark, I'm in the city."

And all thought was gone. Numbness flushed through my body. "What?" I whispered.

"I called… I called to tell you that I love-- I loved you, Mark. But you have to realize that I was never good enough, that I never could'a _been_ good enough. You'll find someone who deserves you, Mark. Someone as… as special and as kind as you are, someone--" Roger paused, and I heard him sniffling. "That's all, Mark. I wasn't good enough to love you. Until you find someone who is, promise me you'll love yourself?"

I said nothing.

"Well… tell Tom good-bye for me, okay? I have to go now, Mark. Take care of yourself."

I left the phone off the hook. I shut my math book; no more work would get done tonight. And I would not go to school the next day to face an absence of Roger.

Nine hours. For nine hours, I had a boyfriend. Now I had nothing. I had two friends leaving me. I had a pregnant teenage sister. I pulled the covers up over my head and wished it was raining instead of a warm April night soaked in cricket songs. He was gone. Roger was gone.

Good night. _Please don't wake me tomorrow._

THE END.

Reviews would be golden-- just like Roger and Mark were when Benny bought the building.

If you're so inclined this story has a sequel called "Once More, From the Beginning".


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